Jimmy Hoffa's Hill

It's cold in the garage
I light my cigarette.
The gray smoke billows
in ribbon tendrils around my head.
I turn my mind to poetry.
I force the anxiety to retreat.
I have to create.

I am procrastinating.
I have a writing assignment due.
So far, I have my books
spread out on the cold concrete floor.

My roommate's, children
Levi and Bella
are laying on one foot each.
Warming me as they contently sleep.

This moment is perfect.
The words will come naturally.
I can feel them bubbling up
from the wellspring.
I will not allow fear
or self-doubt to enter
the sacred space.
I believe in this moment.
I know the poems.
More importantly, I understand them.
I can string words together
and those strings carry gold.
I will get an A.
I laugh and take a drag.
I am ready to begin.
Tonight, I will write like I am in the zone.

Putting the worries of the day
on the back burner
to simmer
To wait.

I will pray.
I will meditate.
I will focus.
I don't want to force the words.

The writing has to feel pure.
If I force my thoughts
to hurry along
To come out
To play.
Then my paper will suffer.

I have learned the secrets
to creating
an insightful masterpiece.
I just have to trust my process.

To learn
to write
without the need
for approval.

This life of writing is an obsession.
I see the words in my mind.
I feel a words underlying meaning.
They come to me with purpose.
They show me a pattern.
They scream to be set free.
This is the gift from
my strange processing brain.
A relationship with poetry.

I live with sensory processing disorder.
It is not enjoyable
but who would I be without it.
I was the kid that was different.
I grew into an adult with strange quirks.
I learned to adapt
to the way I process information
and in return, I have writing.

I see the world through the eyes
of a seeker.
I search for inspiration
in each assignment, at work,
I search the ground for treasure.
I follow the voice of my true self
She tells me to be curious.
The wellspring with guide me
I  will create something
thoughtful and unique.

Just to get critiqued.
That happens when you are young.
You are filled with uncertainty.
Even as you trust in your talent
You remember getting knocked down.
Your spirit is not yet strong enough
to believe in the person you will become.

In this house
with the Jimmy Hoffa hill.
I am blessed.
I have time
to  finish this one assignment.
There are years of college in front of me.
Plenty of time thicken my skin
to the sting of literary rejection
It can be brutal.
It can spiral me out into the void.
Where there are no words for support.
I am familiar with this feeling, as well.
I will put myself back together.
The light of my soul shines
Even when I think my light is gone forever.
It is there guiding me.
Taking me by the hand.
Leading me home.

I think about my roommates
Pletch and Patrick
they will soon be home.
My family by choice
They inspire me to continue
By making art and
filling our home
with beauty.

The paper is finished.
I am happy with the results.
A writing assignment successfully finish.

I am still in the zone.
I will write for myself.
I will not give up.
The words are just waiting
to be written.