a hundred started stories, a thousand lost ideas,
clouds of stolen magic tickle my neck
and my brain,
but nothing comes of it.
squares of paper tacked around,
swearing that the idea is here,
"don't throw me away!
i am the next great thing!"
the ticking clock mocks me,
as does its digital cousin:
the reasonable time to sleep has come and gone,
and what is left is a worried wreck,
wondering when is too early to start coffee.
dreams of swinging through vines, and laughing,
and ignoring death,
well, because FUCK death, you know?
mortality is a hateful old woman on the porch,
waiting patient and angry:
no matter how far you run,
or how long you hide,
you eventually have to come back,
and she will be there.
huddled in the corner,
searching through ashes
for a life once lived,
the laughter echoes,
i can tell.
but it's just so hard to hear
with all the sobbing.