writing class intimidates me.

I could burn a hole in this floor,
just waiting to inspire, or be inspired
if I could, I’d hold on to this for longer
but I am far too tired
there’s a ghost wherever we used to be
the lack of your presence, present.
I would whisper every explanation you need to hear
But I don’t know how to be closer.
In a room full of storming heads
I am the only one without a basket
Catching syntax if you’re lucky
I’d wait around and catch when your crystals drop, if you’d only asked it.
Don’t kidnap the spells that once ran through broken fingers
Because they’re dry and unable to create
When letters lose all of their shape
That’s the day I’ll know I’ve had it.


i'm turning blue with every day i can't do this.