Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


My mama always tells me
that I should find better ways to make a living. She reckons
that I can’t afford to keep going at this pace.

Sometimes she’ll visit me right
in the middle
of a particularly tough week. I’m bloated, tense, and unable
to sit. Those days always play out the same way:
she’ll dote over me,
feed me some sort of hot broth,
and try to help me work it out of my system.

she stayed with me for over a week while I swore
to her that this time it was going to make me tap, that I wanted to die.

But it always comes.

Crashing through my system like a linebacker, everything exits
my body as a giant grenade.

Even though she can see the sheer ecstacy in eyes
that this relief provides, mama will always cluck her tongue
at me and swear I need more fibre in my diet.
It’s her polite way of asking me to deal with my

She’s probably right, from a health standpoint,
but I always roll my eyes at her.

What does All-Bran® have to do with writer’s block?



Trying to find the right words.

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