I’m not writing.
I’m thinking.
I’m aggitated.
I have PMS,
Or something,
Nearly 24/7.
It's irritating to be in my skin,
But it’s an itch
I can’t scratch.

So I’m not writing.
I’m battling depression.
I feel too full.
I struggle to stay awake.
I’m coming to grips.
I’m probably chasing away
The love of my life.

But I’m not writing.
I’m doing the dishes.
I’m watering the lawn
So I can apply the weed-killer
Before I replant the grass.
I’m checking the mail
Just to see if there’s anything
Worth reading besides account balances.
I’m walking the dogs,
Breaking up fights.
I’m checking the paper
To relieve my boredom.

Believe me, I’d rather be writing!
But I’m doing laundry
And folding wrinkled clothes.
I’m turning Meme’s TV down,
Clearing away her lunch dishes.
I’m measuring out her insulin
Into individual syringes
And divvying up her pills
Into breakfast, lunch, dinner
And bedtime containers.
I’m making sure her milk jug is full
And buying toilet paper for tomorrow.
In the clearance isle, I find "Hope on a Rope"
But even at 75% off, I can't afford it.

And after all that, I don't write.
I isolate.
I am alone
In the middle of a life
That no one notices.
I stub my toe and twist my ankle,
But the tree is falling in a forest
Where sound is moot.

For today, I just think about writing,
Which doesn't really get it done.
Nope.
Not today.

07/16/2008