morning routine

when I wake up
it's still dark outside
and I hear the
poems flutter.

they fly around

like moths blinded by the light,

bump into walls,

can't find their way out.

I'd let them out, but

if I move,

they will be gone

in an instant,

like a dream worth

dreaming till the end.

they don't like to be

disturbed, and I don't

like disturbing them.

so I lay there

in the dark

and listen to the music

of the words,

try to string them all together,

to make them fit

each other

just

right.

and I whisper to myself,

eyelids still closed,

with hope

to remember that music

later, when the sun

comes up.

then

suddenly

I jump.

I quickly

find something to write with,

something to write on,

and I scribble,

scribble,

scribble

more,

but they are clever.

they hide,

they like to see me struggle,

they like to play my luck.

and luck is just another word.

I hope that

someone

somewhere

is writing

them

ALL

down.