I've spent too much time on Twitter
And now I've been in a dither
I haven't been writing
Let alone anything exciting
So this really bad poem
Was the only thing flowin'
Please don't ask, "What's with her?"

As you walk down the street snow crunches under your feet.  Your breath hangs in the air.  Every time you breathe in you feel the coldness inside yourself.

Its winter you feel and hear.

You hurry to get to your destination. There is a silent wind that bites at any skin that is exposed. With every step you try to cover up what’s showing. Tugging at your scarf and pulling your jacket tighter around you.

You get a feeling of warmness when you realize that you can’t cross the next street. Gathered with all the other people stopped at the corner. Everyone appears to feel it too. The light changes and everyone moves. The warmth is lost.

What you wouldn’t give to climb inside a cab right now, but no. You know you have to walk the distance. But still a cab would be nice. You watch the people in the cabs. They look so warm. You forget about the cabs and keep walking.

There is a coffee shop at the next corner, you’ll stop there. You buy a cup of coffee.
The smell of it wakes you up some. Just holding it warms your hands. As you walk down the street, breathing in the steam, you feel yourself warming up. Every once in a while you’ll sip some. You can feel it going down. It burns yet it feels good. You’re getting warmer.

Two more blocks then you’re there. Five more minutes till you’ll be warm. You pick up your pace a little. Just the thought of the warmness of the building sends a tingle up your spine.

As you reach the front door you stop. You look over your shoulder to the snow starting to fall and realize that you love winter in the city.

But still you go inside.  It’s warm there.

Be careful
Andrew, I’m
coming for your job.
Keep an eye on me,
because there is
only so much you can take back promotions.
Notice me and accept me as an
equal in the office.

Cheating me out of my due is only
hurtful to you and
each person who has thought less of me.
Andrew,
please take care in what you say,
every time you think I can’t hear your
negative comments, I can.

Devoid of support I can still rise,
and I will rise with or without you on my side.
No one can hold me back
going forward I will make you see my worth.
Look at me, you wouldn’t be you without me,
everyone knows it too.

Look at hands, anyone’s will do.  They all tell a story, who the person is and who they will become are evidenced.

I look at my boyfriend’s hands.  They are strong and firm.  They are stained with the grease from cars he loves to work on. His hands will always work in this labor of love.

I look at my friend’s hands.  They are stained with paint and stuck with glue.  They care and education young minds.  Her hands will always be this way they covered with the work of children.

I look at my mother’s hands. They have seen trouble and joy.  They have raised children and a family.  They have expressed love.

I look at my father’s hands.  They too have seen a lot.  They have traveled and experienced so much. They held his little girl and they will hold her love forever.

I look at my grandmother’s hands.  They have seen depression.  They have raised many children and grandchildren and loved them all the same.  They show the years of work and still they keep revealing love.

I look at my grandfather’s hands.  They too show the hardships of a long life.  They have seen war and hard times but yet they are comforting hands.  They are strong yet gentle.  They are welcoming and loving hands.

I look at my own hands and wonder: what will become of them? What will they do and see? Will they amount to greatness or will they be normal working hands?  Will they care for a child and raise a family? When will they get to know that love?

Hands hold the secrets of our lives.  They all tell a story.  Will you stop and hear that story?  Will your hand share love?

Trying to find inspiration to write when you’re not inspired is impossible.  You would think that having not written anything for some time would be enough. It’s not.

You’ve looked to your life, surroundings, experiences, but nothing works.  You think of other writings that have inspired you before, but there’s nothing there.

You think, “What if I can’t write anymore? What if my inspiration has run out?” But then you think that was not the case.  You just have a block.  You hope.

Then something comes along to inspire you.  You try to write.  What comes out expresses your feelings out that moment.  It just flows out. You may write a little short poem or a nice long story.

You wonder how long this inspiration will last.  Will it be for just this writing session or will it last for a long while.

Right now you don’t care how long it will last.  You’re writing now!