Writing is Monday

Writing is Monday Smelly breath, Messy hair, Pull away from it, Like magnets of the same charge, Like a tiger ripping into a carcass, Bloody and red. You hate it. Your scalp burning with fire, Eyes bloodshot, The hate and anger burning in your chest, Slamming a hundred doors in your mind. 7:09 on a Monday morning. Coffee scrapes your tongue with Velcro, Your face coated with insecurity, Papers are crucified around the table, Writing as ideas are born. White and red and black Staining hands and wood, You thought that this one worked It doesn’t, oh my god, How stupid, This idea is awful Paper like snowballs in a blizzard, Frustration is seeping deep into your skin and into your core Why here? Why now? Please please please help! Noon on Monday The redness from your face, Bleaches into a soft cream. Relief is an ocean, cool, wet and luxurious. A plan is organized and the paper begins to appear. You’re sliding through the papers, Words and commas and periods and question marks. Mellow like a flower in the sun, Time flies around you, Lose consciousness of pain, I am writing and I don’t care about you. Peace is a spinning top in your heart, 5:27 on Monday Well look now. I’m done. Happiness does jumping jacks in your throat. It’s over! It’s over! The paper is printed, sitting in your lap Really? Sadness is cruel, Ambushing you when you don’t expect it. Like a tiger pouncing on prey. I want it to be back. I need to write again. But I have to wait Seven days. Until next Monday. 10:43 on a Monday evening