I write better
with a little something
stuck to my heart,

latched on for dear
life, trying not to lose
grip, be forgotten.

Sometimes I’ll let it
hang, just to feel the pull,
and eventually it will

climb back up,
like a cat coming home
for food.

And sometimes, my
brain, it says

“Hey! Have you
forgotten about me,
or something?”

But, I say no.

Because none of
these words

would actually
make sense, otherwise.

Just random
blotches of red ink,

illogical
patterns staining
the page.