If I Don’t Start Now, When?

The urge to write,
I haven’t felt in a long-ever.
Still familiar,
Envisioning myself with a pencil and pad of paper in hand,
Here I am.
Glimpses of stories,
Settings, characters, a method, time.
Plug into place,
Plod away at the click-clack of keys,
Scratch of pencil on paper,
Take care, hands.
His guide all said and done.
This world, I have to tell.
(Listen up,
It’s gonna be a good one!)


(I’ll do this now, no delay.)

I want an escape from reality.
Alter me, remove me from the current,
it’s an illusion. But, still, still,

I am always here, now.
So I guess I’ll just keep writing.
Biting off more than I can chew.

Always been chasing that dream,
this is where I’m supposed to be.

(This is the only work
I know how to do.)

Morning pages by morning light,
woke up at five and couldn’t go back to sleep.
Maybe this is a good routine.

(I am strong. I am full of energy.
I can not let pain define me.)

I am not apart from all things,
I am a part of all beings.
And when I remember that,
and live accordingly,
it falls into place so easily.

Independence in bloom,
the drive to accomplish
what one
puts their mind to.
I admire that.

(Time to show it.
Brilliant and prolific.

You are a poet, after all.
You know.)