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

Come dine,

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