mostly. mostly, not writing. anything else.
maybe I look at fear, or empty-headedness.
maybe I play a game, watch a movie, read a poem
written by someone else, but that’s work too.
maybe it’s late at night. later. darker.
more quiet. less to pretend to care about.
doing nothing. that counts.
maybe I just feel lonely inside my skin.
maybe I wonder about you. how are you?
maybe I wonder about a word.
maybe two or three. that’s how it starts.
after all of that.
maybe just one phrase. usually.
when I remember, it starts from there.
although, only takes a moment to forget.
I’m good at that.
then again, I remember you. what I want
you to know. what I feel wants to become
more like Light.
maybe I sneeze. twice.
then, listening. that’s what I do.
trust.
wordswerepoemsfirst.com 
Isn’t it remarkable how when we get really silent or when we do something else entirely, the word or words come? It feels to me sometimes like they are dropped from the sky. Plopping into my coffee or my tea. I stare at them for a long time after I type them trying to find out the ones that come next. Sometimes the rest comes fast, but other times I’m forced to work for it a syllable at a time. But there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.
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Good for you. Me, feels like they land on my head. Sometimes not so gently. A writer seems to me spends more time listening than writing. Someone smarter than me once said, do what you need do, honestly for yourself – only then will you have something worthy of giving away. The more you are alive, the more you have to share. I try.
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