Two-hundred and Forty-five: the one

jiving at five in the morning,
yawning without wanting
to sleep, but duty is ringing
on the phone and
grandmother nature
is singing a tune
you love (but hate today).

shy goodbyes bite you
in massive waves:
you should have let him kiss you  good night.

but this is not you.
you are the one that blows kisses you wish you could plant.
you are the one that throws away hands you could hold.
you are the one that drops compliments you  could keep.

you are the one that chases touch (but just to crush it).

Uhm, can you say WRITER’S BLOCK? Say it with me: WRITER’S BLOCK.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

5 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Forty-five: the one”

  1. Yeah. And somehow the block always comes around that time you have a deadline to beat. Or when you really, really need to write something down else you burst.

    You’ve asked for my story. I am having a block about that right now. But I am trying to tag-collect the ones I’ve written in my blog over the years, for you. That would have to suffice for now.


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