Writing is a Game I Play Best When You Steal My Scrabble Pieces.

            I suffer from a little condition called ars poetica; I offer disclaimers like sacrifices before revelations can even hit the page. If I could eat my disclaimers, I'd call them comfort food. And if I'm ever left hungry, my page is left empty for fear that I might say something I don't mean, or even worse, I might say something that I do. But, when I sit down to write anything, it's not just anything that comes out; I feel like there's a polar magnetic resistant force between my paper and pen that only allows what I deem "poetic" onto the page—this isn't to say that I only write sestinas, villanelles, and Shakespearean sonnets; sometimes I choke on form when I mistake it for my comfort food. I choke and I cough, cough up perfect poetic phrasing pretending like I know what I'm saying, because I know that if I believe them, then you will too. But I can't find the right letters; I can't find those right letters, but Surrender and I never got along, so I try. I try and I try because it's all just a game!

            I call Confidence my trusty friend who's always there to hide behind; as I make sweet love to audience like it were third nature—evoking pulsing orgasms with the annunciation of my consonants and vowels, perfectly pronouncing practiced proverbs and alliterating you with piercing precision until you're satisfied. I don't need the lost pieces; I am the lost pieces; this is my game and I am veteran!

            I've been playing since I learned Santa wasn't real, because with every lost belief, so too comes a new one. And I'll play this game until the pieces are found, realized they're no longer needed, and fall to ash, ash that will build up, form up, and reform into sculptured prophecies that could be mistaken for the Venus De Milo; I LOVE this game.

            And I will play until the sun comes up. And then goes down. And then comes up again. And I'll play until chocolate is vanilla. And I'll play until someone can ask, with a straight face for a waffle cone of "Chocanilla." And I'll play until society agrees on the proper placement of commas in a standard English paragraph. And I'll play until tangents aren't seen as sins and valued as more than just after-thoughts. So I will play and I will play and I will play.

            But I'll play best when you steal my Scrabble pieces. So please do. They're in the fridge…right next to my comfort food…..you can take that too.