by Mikael Aldo

if it comes it comes

last night all the lights were on 
waiting for me 
to live or die 
on the blank page that refused to speak to me

at 11:44 
in the evening
I was sitting at my desk
long and wide piece of white wood
reaching out its singular hand 
straight from the set of painted bricks
to 
the other end
hangin in the air like an unconscious bird
glued to the wall
next to a bookshelf 
made out of 
stories and tells
about the braves 
and 
the braveless 
printed in small 
and 
curvy letters
that I’ve been sending 
to 
all my night skies
while sweating out the next big thing 
a book 
about a boy 
running through the african field
a poem 
about the last bird 
that brought the southern draught
to my doorstep
a man 
who lied to me on the bus stop 
when 
his tongue met mine

how can you write 
when you see
the bills piled up on your table 
like cabbage heads
laughing at you with their wilted leaves 
thinking 
that 
the worlds end 
have caught you 
in the lamp’s light

but
how can you not write
when 
the trees are calling
and 
the rivers are running

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