Scratches on a bedpost.

Usually they’re about numbers, right?

People numbers.

Sometimes they can be about other numbers,

tiny nicks of success or opportunities.

Mum said last night to do some spoken word.

Well, some more spoken word.

I’m shy and confident and awkward

all in one.

Not sure how that would work.

She says my delivery is good…

But, Mum, you make me sound like take-out.

You make it sound easy.

I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

I’ve been told that’s normal.

Does anyone?

I just want to write

but there’s times

where my mind doesn’t agree

and my heart doesn’t want to talk

so, what do I do then?

I’ve done spoken word twice.

I’ve written almost a book

and dozens of others.

I write poetry because…

Well, I’m not sure.

I’m not a poet.

I’m into prose.

I’m into romance stories

but been told I’m one of the most cynical people about love there is.

That’s true.

I’m sorry.

I may post some prose on here soon.

For now,

I’ve been thinking about the nicks,

the scratches on a bedpost.

My bed is metal,

not wooden.

It shows me nothing but fairy lights…

Isn’t there some magic in that as well, though?

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