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It is on the tip of my teeth, my tongue, my fingers, resting like hangnails and popcorn husks
I am itching to write something worthy of mention in the calming clarity of my medication
I am washing dishes and laundry with fervor, I am performing better at work
I am handling social obligations with something close to ease and I am not even tempted to reply to my mother’s backhanded ‘sweetness’
I am wrapping Christmas presents and shovelling snow, I am holding close the ones I love
I am doing squats and pushups and eating salads and I feel a million times better, I really do
But damn, am I itching to write.
I miss being delirious at 3am, house silent around me, tapping away in the dark
I barely stay up past 9 anymore, what with all my being a morning person now.
Well okay, I don’t miss the despair but now I really need to find some new ink, or a new font
Because what kind of a poet can’t write?