What I am - not what I do.

Just a wee one today, the first line popped into my head as I chopped up potatoes for dinner. Yoohooing through the letterbox - impossible to ignore.


Writer

I'm speaking from that place - you know
the one. That attic, out of sight,
at the end of the darkest staircase. I tiptoe in -
lay down my brain,
cover it in blankets to
keep it warm.

It's full of books I
haven't read and words I've
whispered but never said. Thoughts I
discarded in the wastepaper bin because
they hurt too much.

Now sat at the pockmarked desk, pen in hand, I
scribble in between the lines. Avoid the gaps which
are fuller than the stops.

I'm prepared for the screaming from
the mad woman
inside - but still she takes me by surprise. It seems
Grace Pool is away today.

Biro blemishes my fingertips, as I skirt around
the issue. Distraction; itchy nose; a tissue.