I take the kind of pen very seriously.

It is an extension of my hand

Which is my part body,

And on a good day my mind and my body

Are one.

And I write because I am compelled to,

Because I am happy and things are beautiful and nice.

But on a bad day I write more.

Because I am not whole

And I can’t see beauty.

So I search for one line of poetry

Among the fragments.

Grey sky. Slow walkers.

Stinking heat and I’m so tired.

Get me out. Just trying to live.

And on until we reach self loathing

Mind and body.

Down there in the dark writing whirl

I can land on hope by mistake.

Why do I hate the overcast sky?

It’s the only thing I know that looks so colorless

Like the newsprint we drew on in first grade.

I used to color the sky red-orange

Because in my stories it was always sunrise.