The desk cluttered up fast
once I built the damned thing.
Chips, cookies, and the secret stash
of Kookie Cola under it
for my writing binges.
That massive science encyclopedia
anchors one corner by itself,
stacked upon it, various astronomy texts
that warn me CJ's day
is coming here soon.
Notebooks occupy their turf,
spilling down to infringe upon
the boundaries and turf of others
marking the war to come
for my writing time.
My last few books
that survived the great purge
before I lost almost every thing
sit in the opposite corner,
westerns threatening my sanity.
This battered laptop reigns
over the last flat spaces,
only the coffee cup's little spot
for it to take away
or my arm's rest.
Stillness in my head
warns of a blocked mind,
but the whispers are slowly emerging
from the long, painful silence
hinting at tales forming.
This is my life.
This desk and my job,
no illusions twist my views now.
Then again, they probably do,
when I see this.
I see hope here,
not some pile of clutter.
I see potential to build again
the worlds I once before
held out for others.
But not now.
I have to go work.
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