I Need To Write Something

I need to write something.

My pen is panicking,

hovering over a wasteland,

watching the minutes move on,

pleading for my attention.

I need to write something.

It’s October,

where I am, at least,

the last time you kissed me,

in your car,

as I thought about the night before,

and the morning,

when I woke up,

with the sun saying “hello” through small cracks in the blinds,

as I buried myself inside your arms.

I need to write something.

I’ll be in awful trouble if I don’t,

(I’m already in awful trouble, anyway,

so a part of me thinks “what’s a little more?”)

I need to write something.

My pen tries to pull me from fantasy,

but as usual,

I ignore the ink,

and do whatever I want,

falling back between my sheets,

dreaming of you,

doing whatever you want.