I woke this morning to the sound of rain
buried beneath the sounds of my children’s laughter
mingled with my wife’s chuckles
blended with the pounding of my heart in my head.
I laid there,
half buried beneath the covers
and pretended for a moment that I had
I rolled out of bed, made my way into the living room,
looked at my family, sitting amid the debris of our life
our living room
Our house (cue a likely 80s hit)
and wondered if…if…if…
I’ve sat down to write at this computer a dozen times
in as many days
Too tired from working in the Creative Industries
Too tired from being too tired
Too tired from loving disagreements
From too much coffee
From too little sleep
From too little creativity…
I’ve looked inward, and outward,
and forward, and backward,
I’ve broken down in tears
I’ve cursed a thousand rag-ged swears
(and told a hundred people where to go);
I’ve screamed until I was hoarse
I’ve remained silent until I’d forgotten how to speak;
I’ve not heard one damn mermaid singing each to each.
I’ve heard others’ words of their worlds,
seen life on the screen
read words on a page
All belonging to someone else.
So, having given hopefully sufficient love to my kids,
Said enough of the right words to my wife,
Patted upon my dog once or twice
and leaving a hopefully minor stack of dishes in the sink
I’m sitting down to write–
Good, bad, or indifferent…
He walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of Rye for himself and measures the consequences of streaming movies to his television.
“It’s not a big thing,” he says, “just sit down, pour one in a glass, pour some words out and let the images wash over you, right?”
He bangs some words out on the keyboard, pretending that they mean anything to anyone other than him.
“What are you looking at?” He asks.
“Seriously, just put it down on paper, on the screen. Bang it out. They don’t even have to be good…”
My kids are asleep
My wife is asleep
The dog is hungry for a walk outside to the rain soaked ground, and I am fighting sleep to get one
No two, no four, no ten
more words down and out from my too little brain,
to my heart, to my hands, to the keyboard, to the ether;
I find myself drifting off
To the sounds of little snores
to the song playing on the radio
to the tink-tink-tink of melting ice on glass–
I’m going to bed to the click click clack
of my keyboard,
as my own words
fall like a brittle rain
from a brittle Winter’s heart.