Sunday, November 27, 2011

Day 859: the morning after

You write a poem
You think you are changed
That a part of you is pricked and pulled out like string
Something spun to make your insides feel less barren
With something shiny
Make you the consistency of cellophane
The shine of a pendulum
The gravity of a girl
Who keeps coming back
Like she’s tethered to your waist
And the heavier you swing her away
The faster the return

You woke up today
And realized
The lines that fell out of you last night
Were not songs
But coal pieces that never managed to pressurize right
You wonder what you will right tomorrow
And if you will ever sit
With this white page
And write a story
Worth at least your own time
In memorization

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