Literary Word Vomit

By Me

I’m always dreaming of stories

Sitting, standing, walking, waiting 

Always drafting up new worlds as I pass the day

Perhaps myth and magic flows through one

Maybe another is harsh reality

Funnily enough, sometimes I find that 

Reality tells the best

No matter where I am

I’m always dreaming of stories

In a small dimly lit room, My small dimly lit room,

I’ll wonder and wander across every plot and place

Occasionally I consider recording them 

Making them as real as I am by doing so

And as easy as it should seem

To just simply put the thoughts to paper

I won’t

I actively refuse to let myself write 

Not because of fear nor

Because of lack of effort. 

The reason I don't write is simple

It is the awareness that no matter 

what I might’ve written

I can never see it as anything more than 

literary word vomit

Even as I type these words 

I have the same reaction

Perhaps I’ll place a long drawn out sentence here

Followed by a phrase made shorter for effect

That’s writing

Maybe put in a quick Capitalization 

that you astute viewers might enjoy

I’ll let the words breathe out

Their powerful personification

Written, revised, typed, trashed, read, rewrote

It’s all just some ambient alliteration

Yet still all I see are the words on the page

This poem, my poem

Its repetition is astounding

And throughout this process

Of following the rubrics and 

Checking the boxes in colored pen

I constantly wonder 

What is the reason?

What good is a visual 

Of a beautiful sunlit garden 

Lined with dozens of shades of vivid colors

Filled with floating butterflies of every pattern 

Handcrafted from the pen and page

If there is no reason 

But hey, I wrote her “three hundred words” didn't I?