#23 04/13

I don't feel like writing
when my words are like tears
running along my cheeks
and my sleep interrupted
by the regular ringtone of rewrite.
I write when silence
is as thick as the pollen clouds,
when my apartment
outgrows it's square footage
and becomes my home,
when children are safely learning
and not learning safety.

I don't feel like writing
when the let down of democracy
weeps in the loneliness of my children
and nomadicism becomes the resolution,
the first defense,
to a problem that sharing snickers
and barbie dolls can fix.
Where did we learn to teach
helplessness,
masked in single syllable slang?
Who trained us not to be ready,
but merely vigilant?
When do we wander beyond
ignorant bliss,
into the highway,
and feel the rush of the cars passing by?
So, no, I don't feel like writing
but poems speak in keystrokes
and my fingers are talking
loud enough
for, at least, one of you
to hear.