I write poetry mostly.
Feelings and thoughts,
Days I’ve lived,
Questions and conclusions.

But I have stories,
Some short, some long,
All impactful,
All with a personal touch.
But before you ask,
No,
I haven’t written them.
They exist solely for me.
I need to write soon.
They’ve been circling,
Eyeing my thoughts
Like vultures,
Picking at the tastiest morsels
Making themselves stronger.
I have volition
For the time being,
But I’m lying in a desert
Growing weaker,
Watching them
Watch me.

Some day soon,
I’ll nock my pen
And kill
These bastard buzzards.
Until that time,
I’ll keep my eyes up,
And pen my own feelings
Lest I feel no more.