Have you ever noticed that the best writing you’ve ever done is never underneath the sun? It’s always in the pitch of night. The timing never, ever right?
This is where I currently reside, standing at the kitchen counter, barefoot and rocking some coral chevron pajamas; microwave digits glowing green at 3:17. Its dagnastic early, my eyes are heavy, but my brain is a flurry of thoughts, lyrics, and meaningless emotions until I put them down on paper. I’ve already bled out one poem, meant only for me to read. Sorry folks.
As writers, you know those poems, the ones that speak so clear of your emotional state that if other people read them, they might get frantic about what you will do to yourself after they read all the darkness formed in the couplets. Yeah those.
Forget it you tell them, it’s just feelings. Not always your feelings, just ones you somehow picked up when you were out and about participating in life. If those don’t get spat out, they will bobble like a toy boat sitting on the edge of a sewer drain after a heavy rain. Never actually going down over the edge, but bucking and pitching until you type them out. They are never a permanent pain. Yet, they need to be released or you will sink like the titanic drowning in other people’s emotions. Empathy is the one thing you can never completely release down into the sewer. It lives, breaths, and builds inside every single day until once again your fingers touch the keys. Your heart, a vessel for other people’s pain. Hopefully, they believe you.
Now, I’m drained, the night has passed. Back to sleep or just relax??