Written on a park bench when I was 22.

This is how I write

I just scribble

little nothings

until I stumble upon

a something

(a rare occurrence).

On my best days

my words fall out of my fingertips

like leaves from branches in autumn

they mix in piles on the ground

and people I like

and a few that I dont

and mostly strangers

shuffle their feet through my words

unaware that they are wading ankle deep

in my heart.

It hurts

writing hurts

because feelings hurt

all those crowded thoughts in stacks in my brain

waiting for their turn to roll off my tongue

or leak from my pen.

The hardest part is not knowing

how to turn it off

so every word

written or spoken

every grammatically correct text message

ever look or blink or touch

all of it is my poetry

wild and unchained

pieces of my mind.