everytime i close my eyes i see the words take shape

i’m exhausted

but as i lay here contemplating a nap to be somewhat more functional

all i can think is write

write

write

and i don’t know why

it isn’t like this puts food on the table

there’s no measure of satisfaction in a job mediocrely done

but still

the words sing

tales spring to life and taunt me with the need to be told

and i’m powerless

i am a slave to them

maybe this next one will be the one that makes her come from out of the shadows

reveal herself to me

it won’t

it never does

if she is out there i can only guess she doesn’t know i am here

my luck she probably only likes good poetry

or she assumes the she i write about is more than a dream

i wonder what it would be like to sit next to her

and write about her with my eyes lost in the perfection that is her

will she smell like wildflowers

or cinnamon

or vanilla

what color are her eyes

her hair

will she play video games with me

read out loud to me as we sit on the couch and avoid the staggering heat

make fun of my love for anteaters and kangaroos

my obsession with octopi and squid

how i will read for a moment

and then frantically write for the next three hours

will she find my easily aroused curiousity adorable or annoying

she’ll probably hate me

i would

so at least i have the words to hold me in their needy grip

who needs sleep

not me

one day maybe i’ll have it all

but until then i’ve got a constant symphony of disharmonic wailing to keep me awake

i guess there’s always that