W.U.I.

I meant to write another poem today, and this just documents my extreme frustration...with some memories of summer at my Nana's thrown in for some reason

"Ne’er operate heavy machinery while inspired," the old adage-er reminds.
"Of course, sure thing, whatever." The girl laughs
"And be sure ne’er to write while under the influence of…"
but she had already raced out the door before he finished the thought.
You see, she has drunk nary a drop of liquor in her life,
So why be wary of influence as she writes?
For beyond that door is this world which remains impossible to ignore.
This world full of fragments and tidbits and snatches of phrases and scenes that all mesh together with details from her mind
Those bits and pieces of beauty
dancing over the hedge,
tempting her, until she can't stop herself from clasping her hands to catch one.
Cupping that soft glow in her palms.
And now she has that firefly inspiration
So she dashes back into the house to find a jar-
the perfect jar, the ideal home for this little lightning bug.
But no bug is content to live out its short days in a child's care
so it squeezes through her knuckles without her notice…

After being inspired by little kids throwing poppers in the alley,
she’s quite sure she's ready to write.
But first she takes this call from her aunt
and then sits on her bed to recall the fragment and flesh out the scene once more
Yet as she goes to record it, her grandmother calls her down to help with dinner,
her mother wants to go see a movie,
her sister wants to go shopping,
and of course she can't say no because this world is just full of excitement.
She'd be damned if she didn't imbibe as much as she was able!

But she sits down to write at the end of the day, or tomorrow, or the next-
and she's struggling to grasp that same firefly in her hands.
because how can she really tell it's the exact same bug that she had named and toted around the yard?
She can't.
So a line from that movie or that funny comment her boyfriend made the other day floats across her page instead.
A warning never to write under the influences of the world.