9/10

I am running my hand across poems
It is like pressing a rubber stamp with feathers
sticking to it onto a smooth white page

I can see little difference between
writing and breathing
between a sagging couch and an alcoholic
between an apple and the sharpened point of a pencil;
they all seem synonymous.

They are calling me outside
but i am lost amongst the words of others
and cannot find my voice to say no.

Instead, I say,
"art is a form of catharsis"
I say,
"By Christ I am no carpenter"
I say,
"My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth"

I find my voice and I say:
"come back tomorrow"