HOME | DD

Description
The drips from my soaking face
landing on the metal heating grate.
(I write what I know.
And right now
That's all I hear:
the gentle empty pinging)

And I know
that words plucked from restless air
and slapped together in scrambled lines
are not poetry.

But still I write them.
I jot them down in the wee hours
in bed by the light of a crooked warm lamp,
on flimsy notebook paper better suited to equations than verses.
Still expecting the contents of my mind
so carelessly plotted in pencil
to somehow resemble
poetry.

Description
The drips from my soaking face
landing on the metal heating grate.
(I write what I know.
And right now
That's all I hear:
the gentle empty pinging)

And I know
that words plucked from restless air
and slapped together in scrambled lines
are not poetry.

But still I write them.
I jot them down in the wee hours
in bed by the light of a crooked warm lamp,
on flimsy notebook paper better suited to equations than verses.
Still expecting the contents of my mind
so carelessly plotted in pencil
to somehow resemble
poetry.