Blank page. Music slow. And writing for the smell of summer, gone.
Creation, not one person really knows what that even means.
Especially, not me.
It’s there; the hammer taps in the middle of
the end of sunlight.
Timely words of an old-shirt rubbing my shoulders, as fingers, body aging, my art, tired.
Plans and dates and running in the woods the other day I felt like the only person in the world, and the next day, I was the only one in the city park, because everyone drives passed what they love, and they never see me, or the water, the trees, the swans; only red-lights, but they never wait.
They know it, so why do they even have to read about it? Look? It’s there. It’s there. It’s there?
People don’t read-don’t ask-don’t care, and only ask for help when they condemn it to being A.OK, and boy do they ever take it. It’s only a disaster when it looks at them. They drives passed the storm every day, and the temperature is always controlled.
They only see when the have to see, regret when they want back what they love, when it was there, until the end of time.
Don’t read-don’t care-don’t bother. Don’t worry about writing and walking and sitting under a tree, man’s best friend, because they say it’s too cold, when really, it’s too warm.
There’s no time for writing and intellectual pursuits of the mind anymore, because people are smarter than we give them credit for.
Maybe I, give them way too much credit…
I woke up with two hours of sleep, and now it’s the last day of October.
Trick or Treat.