She woke to a wet face and snot covered nose. The tears were cold, sticky against her cheeks. Her hair stuck against the side of her face, while the tip of her nose began to crust.

She could smell the previous night: stale sheets from sweat, cheap whiskey from her cabinets, and something sour she couldn't quite place. It was causing her to retch. Used tissues filled her evergreen nightstand and littered her dingy carpet.

All of the crap seemed to fit in with the rest of the decor.

Her face became hot as the pain came back. Ugly sobs fell out of her lips, and they didn't even fill the old room. The walls held none of her cries in repay of the many times they'd listen to her empty threats, and half-ass prayers to a god she wasn't even sure was listening.

She got out of bed now.

An eternal pain prodding her towards the kitchen.

She reached for the pills that sat innocently on her refrigerator.

She opened a bottle's top, tapped the bottom and delicate pills began to fill her palm. She discarded the now empty bottle and placed it in the garbage.

She noticed her glass was shaking slightly, despite her firm hold of the cup. She turned on the tap and allowed some cool water to fill it.

She wasn't sure how many pills were now dormant inside of her, but later that night, the pain didn't come back.

And neither did she.

Jimi’s just joyously jamming.

And HB’s channeling Jimi.

Clock’s ticking, girlfriend’s speaking, mind isn’t thinking because it’s only feeling. But no rhyming allowed in this joyous jamming; only jamming. And why is Jimi allowed to have that guitar and mic, but Stephen King isn’t allowed the same level of performative privilege? According to spellcheck I just made the previous sentence’s second-to-last word up (word up), as with this sentence’s third word. But it doesn’t matter. I want to jam with writing like Jimi with rock. And what’s wrong with that. Absolutely nothing. I am erupting with excitement as I write this. Oh shit; just returned to rhyming. But it’s all good. The goal of this post is simply to keep on writing and flowing and guiding the motion, reminding me of Finding Forrester - when William...

*THE SMARTPHONE ALARM RINGS***

What contrivance is this that these two sisters born of the same mother do trick me so.

When I wore a younger man's clothes did I not consider myself master of both and stride through deepest dark with nary a thought for trip nor trick.

Or did take my ease in the full face of day and revel in her bright glade, and care not for time nor tide.

Yet how pass the years that leave me to stumble through both, with failing eye and trembling hand, to cry in alarm at every turn.

Cruel sisters are they not?

5:42 p.m.

"anxiety sucks," you say

"we're pathetic," i agree

we sit in silence

hands tucked between each other's fingers

you're too scared,

so i lean in

it's not magical

or anything

it's nothing i ever imagined

it's sloppy

loud

short

and foreign

(but we'll work on that)

8:38 p.m.

we sit back on the couch

my head in your lap

as some pretentious motherfuckers

hunt for houses on tv

i call you beautiful

you tell me to shut up

so i tell you to make me

(we're getting better)

our lips do not crash

they glide

and this time,

we do not stop after one touch

we keep going

and going

and going

until i am gasping for air

and you have traveled my forehead

my cheeks

and my lips

9:48 p.m.

10:02 p.m.

11:26 p.m.

12:00 a.m.

until 3:00 a.m.

and every minute between

10:37 a.m.

my lips flutter

on your skin

(we are perfect)

12:45 p.m.

we take advantage of

what we're not supposed to-

it comes natural to us now

i have never wanted so much

to freeze time

and hold you in my arms forever

i have never loved you more

than i do right now

1:02 p.m.

we take a walk

on the country side

hand in hand

taking poses and polaroids

on broken bridges

spilling over with graffiti-

"i'm so in love with you"

i kiss your cheek

we walk on

2:35 p.m.

we are on our eleventh episode

of bob's burgers

but neither of us mind

you are soft

you taste of honey-

this time i do not lose my breath

3:15 p.m.

3:43 p.m.

we take one for the road-

and you are gone

before the seed

there comes the thought of bloom

expectations of petals unfurling

before roots have even

tasted the sweetness of soil

or the warmth of rain

let's get the ball rolling again

let thoughts tumble out of your pen

I can see the unwritten words underneath your skin

and I know you think

you're out of words worth writing

and I know you think

you're sick and tired of suffering

the life of a writer

was never nothing but tired

but there is a fire

I see it in the way

you watch the world go by

there are flames in your eyes

and I know you think

that Prose. is slowly dying

but we are all very much alive

so raise your voice high

and help me rekindle this light

surrounded by the shadows

of what remains unwritten

Try stopping an unstoppable force. You may find that the law of semantics cannot be broken even by the most unstoppable force. And the Force itself is such an unstoppable force, through which each wave comprising this cosmic ocean affects every single other wave, and with which you and I can do literally, figuratively, practically, and theoretically anything and everything imaginable. But there is no try. Only do or do not.