Writers Jam

In the corner of my room awaits my desk,
With half-dried brushes, scattered tubes of paint,
Half-opened wrappers and scraps of paper cut and torn,
into the little grave of half-finished stuff.

Beside the dried flowers in a can
12:33 am flashes on the clock, To let me know I’m wasting time again,
a reminder I sit here long after I should be asleep,
surrounded by objects that feel more alive than me.

Prayer flags hang neatly above it all,
But they’re just decoration.
I pretend they mean something,
while knowing they never will.

Every object feels heavier than it should—
tubes of paint I haven’t touched in weeks,
notes I’ll never use,
trinkets I keep because I can’t throw anything away, not even the broken parts.

It looks like a mess,
but really it’s just me— trying to hold on,
trying to create,
as if the clutter might hide me better than the silence ever could.