Something is clogging up
the writing part of my brain,
the part with twists and grooves,
like my willowy, grainy cursive,
with my experiences carved in,
and emotions painted like a mural.
The blue magnetic electricity which whizzes between letters,
down through my veins,
and into my key-clicking hands,
dropping words of air and water,
Earth and fire, onto the screen.
This lightning is weakened,
building slowly for weeks,
to release one small poem.
For the electricity now takes a different path,
through the arteries,
to the heart.
I know it's there when you look at me,
and I have to bite my lips to keep from smiling.
Or when you say hello,
and I have to sweep over the surface of your eyes,
to avoid getting lost.
I've only used your name once,
almost yelled it,
almost running.
To me,
it seems you use my name when speaking to me
more than most people,
but that may just be the way you talk to a friend of a friend.
Because I'm someone who grabs a feather
and tries to fly,
all while standing on the ground.
My pencil has come to something I can't write,
so I guess I'll take the long way around.
