There are two velvet ears
and a little snout sticking out
from the under covers.
She's hogging most of the bed.
I am sleepy from a glass of wine,
two joints, and three bowls,
and a full day that started at 8 am.
There is no snow on the ground
on December twenty fourth in Ohio;
and I'm loving it.
Christmas Eve two thousand fifteen.
A girl and her dog snuggled up in bed.

I have always looked to other
writers for inspiration.
In fact, that's how I learned to
tell a story.
I remember the first author
I became obsessed with was
Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I was 6, and my teacher told me there
was no way I could read her books
because they were too long,
and the words were too advanced
for my age.
She, was wrong.
Then it was a few names I can't remember
but mostly Bukowski.
After reading him,
I knew I found my style.
And the words wouldn't stop flowing
for over a year.
I documented almost every day and every feeling,
but then I deleted it.
I've had three different accounts
because I never felt good enough.
Being a writer means also being
your worst critic.

Never doubt me.
If I want something,
I take it.
If I want to do something
I do it.
I am strong and brave
and **** and smart.
I've never needed anyone's
approval but my own.
I believe in hard work,
and determination.
The world is an open door,
there is always something you can do.
Never let anyone try to tell you
you can't.

The holidays have always
been romantic for me
as a poor, single poet.
But I am not anymore.
Still kind of a poet though..
That's why I always felt the need
for a couple glasses of wine
around family members who asked
about how my life was going.
But now I should feel proud to talk.
But I'm still showing fashionably late,
alone.
I don't know why we play out this relationship so differently than other people.
I suppose I let it become this way;
because that's what I thought I wanted.
Although I'm beginning to realize
I have never known what that is.