When I was very little, my dad used to make up songs about what he was doing around the house.
Getting ready to go fishing, he'd make up a song.
Making lunch; he'd make up a song.
And once, he was making coffee, and I vaguely remember it.
My dad was holding me while he was pouring the coffee into the coffee filter,
The water in the coffee ***.
I remember him looking at me and smiling and then he sang:
"I love coffee," he'd sing and I'd echo with what he'd sing.
"Coffee every day,"
"When I wake in the morning,"
"It gets me on my way."

-J

Stuck.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zero.

(i'll tell you a truth if you come real close)

I've run out of ideas.
my mind does not work

From the Order. Logic. Brains.
The. Sanctuary. Of. Day. To. Day. Life.

to something that is all
asdfghjlmtrvscex;nszgxkla
and
idon'tevenknowhowi'mformingthis­sentencerightnow
itdoesn'tevenmakesense

In truth, this isn't really a poem.
Just the ramblings of a crazy girl

whosjustadmittedthetruth