Wednesday Writing Vol. 4

The pink ooey gooey of my creative soul

Rushed and ridged and held by a thumbed through fear,

Of getting good and messy and ruining my new starched dress.

Afraid is too near a word, and I am too far away to feel 

Much of anything these days. The click-clack-clap-clap

Of my days trickling by.


I feel myself dying, the slow wrenching away of dissolving bone.

The pit-pat of aging skin, getting rougher, callouses on both thumbs.

The memories being turned into some strange soup. Thought

provoked and losing things, always; the thoughts that spread off the page.

The dying of my eggs, dried out, never good to begin with. It's all a bit

Disheartening. This damned stale and stiff living thing. 

Travel bound. Imagining things packed, my feet solid on the 

ground, for a flight over the ocean. 

My new bags in my new baby-soft hands (in my imagination

Everything is new and fresh and perfectly promised).

I think about it and hum to myself in a slow toned girly 

Thought-voice: "and nothing will waste away".

I so wish that were true. And since it isn't I want to waste away 

Immediately. Damned one way or the other.

So here I am waiting for a not too soon, too soon end.

"But remember that they will have to face God, who will judge 

Everyone, both the living and the dead." (1 Peter 4:5)

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