Tuesdays are reserved for late night poetry.
Storytelling and pecking at my keyboard till my thoughts start blurring
between what words are mine and what I've just seen
in novels written by writers who I aspire to be.
Tuesdays are for documenting.
They are a reason to rot in front of the tv and to contemplate why I cannot do what is expected of me.
Student, daughter, lover.
I do anything but what is needed and keep myself busy by doing nothing.
I do nothing yet want to refrain from the guilt that in the morning I'll meet at the foot of my bed;
Alcohol on it's breath, blood on it's feet.
Tuesdays are for missing you
For wondering why I cannot be this poetic in other's presence.
Writer, dreamer.
You are a fraud in your own skin, your brain short circuits and you let it.
Early is never early enough
Busy is never busy enough
And Wednesday mornings turn into a pity party.
YOU ARE READING
Sunset Over Pointe Inn
PoésieLove once stopped me from writing this book, and I hope that whoever is reading this someday finds the kind of love that inspired me to finish it.
