Her brown hair tied up in a messy bun

Yet neat

Because she hates the bumps

Her dark tired eyes

Slowly blinking

As she surveys her room

Her music playing gently

As gentle and it can be

For indie rock and grunge wannabes

Her leg bouncing under her desk

Caving under pressure

Because the words have to be perfect

She gets up and paces

Thinking movement will spark inspiration

But it doesn’t

She wonders how others do it

Produce such beauty

And think it through

She just sits and writes 4 at a time

Usually they suck

Even if people will not admit it

She grabs her phone

Checking the time

How has it only been five minutes

The sheets on her bed

Seem to call her name

Or is it her brain demanding sleep

The water on her nightstand

Demands to be drunk

But she just wants to write

The blanket across her legs

Screams to stop being shaken

But she can’t stop

The knob on her door twists

And someone comes in

Time to start the process again

Ideas bounce back and forth

Nature or the beauty of stars

Drama or the curse of love

Ideas seep through her soul

Through her body and mind

And still she can’t decide

And when she finally narrows it down

To what it always is

She seems disappointed

For her options seem to be

Her past trauma, Her self loathing

Her experiences that rubbed her the wrong way

Or something Poetically tragic

So she writes

She writes

And writes

It may suck

It may be sloppy

But its words

For she declines journals

She declines therapy

She declines venting

Because she has realized

All that helps

Is writing