Alarm went off
is it in my sleep?
Am I listening to the song
in the car rolling on one-laners
in the middle of a mountain?
Wait, it’s Monday morning
my pens have been aching to touch you
the curving of every word longs to be
engraved on paper
or even typed on a screen
what’s going on?
Have my muses yearned for slumber
with the changing of seasons?
Has the alcohol subdued them
so subtly that they no longer
dance the waltz across my eyes
when I see a tiny glow of inspiration?
Where for art thou my darlings?
Where has your magic gone to?
Are writers those beings
that in isolation long for company
company in the form of words
thoughts, touch, kiss, embrace?
Are they genetically programmed romantics
who thrive in the heat of love and chill
in the lack there of?
Are they drunkards
that let their guard down
with every bottom of a glass they crash on the table?
What are writers?
Are they cursed with a tumultuous mind
that rages with the storm of emotions
that embraces the tornado of heartbeats
at …any.. time?
Turn back the clock
it’s Monday again
the past days have not been able
to imprint themselves in my memory
bid farewell to the random possibilities
hello reality, with all your curses
and harsh slaps
I do miss engraving
my words miss this special
connection with paper
this sensual tip feeling
like nerves at the fingertips of lovers
they miss the touch of rough paper
and the paper pushes back
forming bumps of emotions
conveying a message to anyone
who touches my words
look up, put that pen down
and look at the stranded papers
with loose lines all over your bed
he STANDS there,
leaning on the door frame
“well, that’s something I haven’t seen for a while
those wild papers with scratches and lines
and dead cigarettes” he smirks
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask