Time for Corrie to post a blog.
Her room, chaos before her as fingers type, backspace, type.
A stuffed purple rabbit stares at her from the bookshelf.
He leans to the side against a crumpled t-shirt,
his ears flopping forward like the rim of a baseball cap.
why she does this to herself.
waits too long for the absolutely perfect idea to hit.
It’s just a dry spell, she tells herself.
Of course there will be weeks, if not months, when ideas don’t flow,
when the blank screen is an empty cavern of desolate thought,
when there is no epiphany, no annoyance, no excess, no heartache
A pile of dirty laundry sits in the corner,
ever present work to be done but never completed,
always slumbering and growing.
Naturally there will be rough patches.
Naturally there will be flat tires and pit stops.
Her life feels stagnate.
The same things over and over and over.
Tile floor, blue carpet, disheveled blankets on an unmade mattress.
Work, drive, home, bed, wake up, repeat.
The ticka-tack of the keyboard doesn’t stop
even though she doesn’t have anything important to say.
The pile of empty notebooks agrees,
spiral spines casting prison bars over each other.
Writing in verse is a trick she learned in college to get her thoughts flowing.
Something on the dresser shifts,
gravity finally doing its part, pulling and prodding
until the pile of folded shirts finally gives in
and falls to the floor.
Corrie sighs and does not retrieve them.
The sounds of the house quiet
as everyone but the writer prepares for rest,
the tap of the keyboard
speaking with the night.