Nothing to write about.
No stories to tell,
no words to convey,
no angst to lay out on a page.
I want to tell you all about this one time in Ireland,
but it will take too long.
And there was this certain day at work,
but I like my job.
And, I’ve been thinking about this past April,
and a random Wednesday-
and as random a Monday in March,
but I don’t think you would be amused.
There is this show I once saw,
and the one time I met,
or that time I danced to. . .
Oh? You’ve heard this all before?
When I was a seven, I saw this thing,
this real big thing,
and this other time as a twenty something,
I said out-loud, very out-loud
but sometimes, I’m not sure if those stories are true,
or just dreams turned over so many times,
they look like memories.
So I rack my brain,
and stare straight at that damn
And, instead, tell you all the things,
I just can’t write.