i did not write today
my arms, at rest, turned desire
into a charlatan because i am a mother
who believes in moderation, and the
artist in me is a child. gazes as glints
of buildings and the lustre of lilies
and thinks it wants to create limitlessly,
no matter the hour, no matter the conflict
of schedule, or my need to shit. like a child,
it grabs hungrily at books and points shamelessly
at pictures and people and always has questions
about love and kisses and where’s daddy? like a
child, it believes to much in dreams, and every
frikkin thing that makes it’s breath catch and turns
it dizzy. stupid, inexperienced, still in
love with the world child, desperate to dig
in the most moist of soil to dig to the most
squishy and uncomfortable of things, so it
can show me. well i don’t have time.
so i did not write today, and look at you.
with this gross thing in your hand, look
at you! I did not write today, and
you’re alive, aren’t you?
You’re still alive!