Writing Is

Writing is like leaves falling on a violin. It’s like honey dripping off my lip. It’s like a dandelion reaching, reaching in abounding happiness. Writing is like many dribbles on my car window jutting whichever ludicrous way strikes them. Writing is loose skirts that drag on the ground and airy pyjama pants. It’s the smell of campfire smoke on a neighborhood walk. Writing is playing basketball and feeling the fire twenty years too old, till your lungs wheeze and say, “Please.” Writing is my way of beading a necklace till it’s perfectly balanced yet edgy. Writing has to be done. It won’t wait. Otherwise the words flow down the drain with the last of the sediment…

Please Wait for Me

Please wait for me. Honey, I just can’t come home right now. I need a break from mental melodrama. Miracles happen but not tonight. Tonight I’m not going home. I’m going to run my hand down a sterile white wall. I’m going to eat my burger in the form of a square casserole. I’m going to take two little pink pills, two banana flavored pills, an Ativan and an injection.  I’m going to listen to Christian music till it drives me batty. Then I’m going to cast out my demons. But not home. Not tonight. Please wait for me.