Words haunt me in my dreams, in my waking hours
They carve themselves in my grey matter
They pull my hands in loops and lines
The click of keys, the satisfying clunk of return
Bits and pieces of phrases and lyrics
Familiar yet fleeting
Disparate yet part of my collective consciousness
Inspiring love, eliciting hate
Droughts or a copious spate
A blank screen, a taunting cursor
Time to sit, reflect, create
A swirling maelstrom in my brain
I cannot settle on a name
Laminated beam
Delusional whirlpool
Hopes, dreams, wide-plank oak flooring
Traffic and toilets
Heat and defeat
Moist, blueberry deliciousness
Love, support, rapport
Light, bright, lofty air
Gorgonzola, lobster croquette
Bulkheads, bitten-off leaves
Tiny hands on steel support poles
swirling in never-ending circles
I am a bruise
A soft spot on your skin that it hurts to look at
A navy hoodie with black sweats toasty warm from the dryer
An ache so familiar it’s almost comfortable
That vulnerable appendage inviting confrontation
from door jambs and jolly bitches,
pointy corners and conscientious offenders
Apply pressure until I turn green and purple,
puce and chartreuse
A mere shade of who I am
Sore and tender,
when will I be at ease in my own skin?
Chopping Potatoes 