Walking along the beach I picked up some rocks
smooth and wet-colored they felt good in my hand
they felt….
maybe they would like to be my friend?
perhaps rocks won’t care if I don’t call them often
or visit or shop or meet their other friends
maybe the shoe box would be cozy
and they wouldn’t mind staying there quietly
when my head is too full to add another persons conversation
I’m a bad friend
I care…
but too often it is from afar
my words so easily poured out into the ether
or scratched on to paper
in real time catch in my throat
or come stumbling out flat
cloyingly cliche
and my cheeks get hot
and my brain shuts down
and I go away
knowing that I have let another person down
maybe rocks would understand
or at least be more forgiving than I am.




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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