Monday, November 11, 2013

We don't write when we are happy.
We write when we are sad.
Words, swollen and wet
rupture onto a page
unprepared for weight.

There is nothing to say when we are happy.
Weightless, the words wait
for substance.
A million words waiting to care,
to mean,
to swell,
to drip.
The sun dries everything that shines.
How I despise the sun.