Dear writers’ burnout, I’ve stepped lightly under your thumb. Ghastly, recording -jet-lag, blistered-sketched. Riding on fumes alone
alarming ping, the hum, the blow-
singed by the leak of my own.
Habitual crawling towards more white-paper,
the rugged red/table-legs of fire,
I no longer sit down- while oceans are bleeding
I no longer stroke black and white keys,
I no longer dig my heels into my wounds- so I let them…
I no longer key-up the engine
I can’t feel the motor-less hum
In that way, I play the frolicking multi colored peacock
feathering a pretentious prance.
In that way, I am a fool, foolishly
chewing up words/undigested at the red table
sit with me, til the smoke has cleared
and there will be words to write/mountains to climb
and there will be more…
I pray, that my hour of darkness does not cast her shadow
I pray, that you and I find a simple answer
I pray, your stay is not prolonged
In this note you’ll find your bags,
P.S. I’ve kept my pen.
kindness sister, Krissy