February

A writer who doesn’t write.

Mindset without motivation.

When you only write poems because of the intensity

and the high,

numb is the worst thing to feel.

 

My fingers are cold.

My feet are tired from pacing.

My eyes hurt from the light.

 

My thoughts are choppy and mixed with lyrics.

Everyone wears socks and skinny jeans,

and as I force my head up and press my bare

feet together for warmth,

That’s when the poetry comes.

 

Too much to do and too little time.

 

Maybe time is just too long.

 

My fingers are cold.