Author

I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if it were a book,

It would probably be exactly the same

Give or take a few things,

But my author

My keen-to-write-at-4am author

Might love all my flaws

They might wake up abruptly from a two hour nap and think to themselves;

‘What if she meets someone? What if they change her perspective? What if..?’

And my life will change at the drop of a baseball hat,

As it seems to sometimes anyway,

And I would be written beautifully as I meet strangers in this small unsafe world,

And they would go from ‘maybes’ to ‘somethings’

To ‘nothing at alls’ in the blink of an eye

In the swing of a mood and a drag of a coffin spreading smoke like vines,

They are ‘ex-somethings’ there isn’t really a word

To describe their sad smiles and self-conscious hair

I could never give their characters justice

Not like my author could

And they were given such poetic harmony with the stroll of the wave

That neither of us quite saw the sharks and piranha’s waiting in a hidden cave.

I sometimes think

On those days where nothing seems to latch on to my keen attention

On those dreary days

If I were someone’s character

Are those the days when my author feels sad and lonely too?

The pen in their hand squeezed so tight

The finger hovering over the spacebar

The other over the backspace

Forwards or backwards they are asking

Because they cannot decide on what’s worse

The past – and all of that lonely pain

Or the future – with all of that pain to come

And it seems that lately

That indecisions has streamed a set of its own decisions

Bad decisions

Very few good decisions

And a hell of a lot of paperwork.