Unintentional macara smudges
sweatpants and a dirtied mug
pattern transfer onto skin
textured fabric shifts
coffee stains
hair mussing beyond a messy bun
loosed sheets
and tumbled sheafs
of paper
littering every surface
in sight
writers paradise and hell
on earth
each missing written
verse and discombobulated
verbs, where
can the words
conversate and latch
into sentences
puzzle pieces clutter
pages doused in
graphite scratch
a hope poured
liquid onto
spongey mass
learned inaptitude
unsure and insecurity
working doubly
to unfasten possible
matches, imagined
harassments bully fresh
pictured passions
Wake to keyboard
lined forehead and
velvet-roughed cheek
a document filled
still incomplete
***
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford3 days ago in Fiction
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