I have an old library desk where I write.
I have words swimming in my head. These are some of my favorites — bric-a-brac, innocuous, innuendo, ubiquitous, kismet, juxtaposition.
I have notebooks: big ones and little ones and a million scraps of paper that I use to record my thoughts. Once when I couldn’t find something, W pointed out that I save everything. I couldn’t tell if this was a criticism or a compliment.
I have a king-sized bed covered in flannel sheets. It is warm and soft and inviting.
I have books and magazines and newspapers. When I am in bed, I surround myself with them. It is a fortress made of paper and words.
I have pens and markers that I use to make notes and jot down ideas. At night, the paper and pens get mixed in with the sheets and the blankets and our slumbering bodies. I tell W this is what happens when you live with a writer.
I have dreams. Good ones and bad ones that I remember in snippets. I try to write them down, but I am almost always too late.
I have good intentions to empty my brain every day and transfer my thoughts to clean sheets of paper. It never works out the way I had planned. Sometimes this is a good thing, and sometimes it is not.
I have writing that I am proud of. My pieces always seem different when they are in print. More important and truer for some unknown reason. When I’m alone, I read them out loud and wonder who that person was who wrote like that.
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I wrote this from a prompt in my writing group. The assignment was to write a list poem starting each line with the words “I have” similar to the poem I have a horse by Tomaž Šalamun. You can read the poem here. Try it yourself.
Recently, I had a piece published in an LGBT anthology. Off the Rocks, Volume 18 can be purchased here.