A strange pattern for
writing has came
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.
I can’t get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away
Or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.
I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don’t cry, and try not to worry.
I’ll bring you to life.
Oh wow, I recognize myself in this! Brilliant
Thank you.
I used to get ideas on the treadmill. Informative write here, Thomas.
Thanks much.
Beautifully penned, Thomas. One never knows when inspiration will make her appearance, a writer must always be ready my friend. Amazing write. Appreciate you.
Damian
I appreciate it my friend.
Succulent and engaging, I love it Case, lovely man you 🌹
Thank you so much.
Oh, I know this…I’m buried in the notes section of my phone when I’m not home, jotting things down when I should be mindful of what’s happening around me. When I’m home it’s worse. If you spend the night be prepared to sleep alone. People don’t dare ask me to stop anymore, tell me it’s rude, whatever. If they want me in their company they know I’ll be elsewhere.
Solid, engaging write, Thomas. Rock on.
Lol. Absolutely. Thank you