The Station Left Awaiting

One of these days you are going to pick up a pen, jumbled words tangled clouds fuming smoke at the back of your skull, jumping ideas of endless knots around nerves screaming for wrecked ideas and dejected plots.

One of these days you are going to pull a paper (out of its box), twisted stories knitted scenes inducing venom at the pit of your stomach, playing the chords of broken songs around veins scheming for connected pictures and corrected negatives.

One of these days, the pen will be in your hand and the paper will slip through your skin, thinnest fabric bedsheets covered in empty scars.

One of these days, the paper will be filled by words, your words and then pen will be tinted by ideas, your ideas.

One of these days, one of these days–

(says you as you dropped the pen, waiting for another day, another chance)

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