‘Try and stay productive,’ she whispers under
her breath, and whips a stray long bang from
out of her eyes. It may hit the midnight hour
before she even yawns. But scraping out resin
hits from a cloudy old glass piece doesn’t
cut the insomnia one bit.
With a pen to pad since nine she can’t seem
to write enough to fill up a page worth filling up.
Oh, it’s a block alright. Words won’t come, and neither
will the REM. So she doodles in margins and repeats
the mantra, ‘try and stay productive.’ Easier said
The sun rises. Her eyes are red, her mouth is dry,