brewded:

i want to write a poem,
so i sit down in my queen sized bed
(half filled with books and laundry
and a pair of scissors, because i only fill one half).
my toes are cold (because the AC is on,
because our building controls the heat
and i get hot when i’m excited,
and i was reading a really good poem)

i want to write a poem,
so i look around me and my room:
at my wall of keys pinned down by slim nails that,
if i slipped and fell onto them,
would turn me into that guy from hellraiser;
at the poster falling off my door that i got
from a book i didn’t like, but it fills the white space;
at my cold toes under the blanket

i want to write a poem,
and i think of all the poems that i’ve read-
the beautiful ones and the heartfelt ones,
the simple observations and the stories-
and i compare my poem to those,
and maybe also to the ones i don’t like-
but that isn’t fair to them, or to my poem,
so i swim back up to the surface

i want to write a poem,
so i sit down and write one.