I wrote this May 07, 2019, it was a Tuesday. I have these very large sticky papers I put on my wall and write my poems on. I love them because they’re so large, like a painters canvas. My poems never go longer than the paper, and having such a large canvas helps me to really explore my words and thoughts. I love ripping off a new sheet and putting it on the wall and standing before it admiring what will soon come.
So much for lines on paper, crisp like newborn skin,
Untouched by years of sticky fingers, nails and pens.
Oh what a sight it is, newness, endless possibilities
My mind drifts while ruminating ideas, what is
So worthy to be the first to sully?
But I shy from the first thoughts, why write about paper?
But my pen is possessed by its own mission,
And I eagerly or unresistingly, follow it.
You, so blank and large, so much fairer then them all,
Stare at me, a blank stare, until I give you what you want.
Pouring from me, random emotions, tied together like potions,
Each one a remedy for what ails me, some I want
To give away, some I want to hide and take me away,
Unnoticed.
You bring strange yet smooth feelings, as long as
I keep moving. Thanks for being that piece,
What elicits such creativity.
I’ll be back tomorrow, see that you’re crisp, not borrowed.