down the shower’s drain
up in the smoke of daydreams
robbed from the cradle of half-awake
birthed outside the strokes of a keyboard
far away from the landing strip of paper
evaporated from sadness’ brine
forgotten in the thin air of laziness
the hot blasts of passion
the storms of hopelessness
every writer knows their best stuff
was the thoughts that were never
tethered the moment they were born