I am afraid to think, my thoughts turn into stories.
I will write about you or
the slow Asian lady, who wouldn't look me in the eyes, as she did my nails or
the man who shamelessly stared at me until I got off the bus.
My mind a recorder
of sunny days, lonely nights,
deep silence and noisy neighbors.
Never knowing how these thoughts, images and ideas
will shape shift into words on the page.
Ideas of drinking during the day
to stop the chatter,
only to then think of the time I did
by the pool, in the sun, feeding chickens.
Until finally the fat pen with its smooth gel
is in my hand,
words spilling all over,
sometimes not catching them all.
Taking a deep breath,
look at what my mind stopped on
and go back to what I was thinking
before this explosion.
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