Writers
spend time alone,
crowded by the comfort
of coffee shop banter,
seated
in between the next inspiring line
and a 3rd year philosophy student,
we inhale bits of the world,
scratching scraps of today
with a borrowed pen.
Characters dress,
sliding scarves from strangers
and making it a skirt,
and speak too easily
to be forgotten,
assuming headspace
until the unrented pages
of the manuscript
are comfortable enough
to be called home.
Scenes swing,
painting and re-painting
linguistic strokes of background,
of foreground,
of filler.
These wealthy words,
boiling in a waterless pot,
congeal imaginary places
to the reader's mind
and become as real as the taste
of jello in the summer time.
Writers
eek out,
squealing and halting
until word birth
is paramount to
wherever we were going
and isn't complete
without it; we brake for ink
and let social media
be our inkwell
and our Quill,
scribbling at traffic lights,
before the doctor comes in
or half-time.
We are always inspired,
finding new ways
to smash this human experience
into 26 letters
and a myriad of thesaurus references,
auto-spell checks,
and character limits.
Writers are so much more,
but you may not know,
b/c you didn't notice
the pen
we left behind.
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