haven’t shaved since the breakup.

i was sitting in the corner cafe eating a too-small pastry and sipping from an overpriced latte when the muse hits like a hammer to the brain

i call it the muse but

it’s really just this intense, nagging craving for cheap gas station coffee

and jazz on the radio

while i pump out a few chapters of the book that i’ll eventually just delete later anyway

and reward my ‘productivity’ with a few shots

haven’t slept in days

but the muse doesn't care

and with the comforting feel of a glass between my fingers, eventually

neither do i.

I sit down, and stare hard at that keyboard. The paper. The pens and pencils.

"You're going to write."

Stare at the lamp's bare bulb until it burns my retina. Watch the ceiling fan rotate slowly, blades swishing like lazy goldfish swimming in the same fishbowl over and over and over again. Is it me or is the room darker than it usually is?

"Put the pen to paper. Make the magic happen."

Stare outside. Not a single thing in sight, not even an occasional bird. The gray overcast sky casts a pallid color over everything, and it feels like there has never been color here. 

if there is no color then why waste time mixing the ink?

when life has left you in the dust

and your friends come and go like the seasons

when everyone wonders at your “lack of trust”

and why you stay at home without giving any reasons

is it because you’ve given up?

or is it because you’re simply scared

of giving more of yourself than is needed

and paying the price because you dared