solid ground


I picked up a pen on the plane.

Not a Xanax.  Not a hope and a prayer.

All I had was a pen.


“The sky is blue.
Just like the lines on this paper.
Blue is a pretty color, especially when it looks like the color of the sky…”


I’d heard the voices all week long.

For months actually.  For as long as I can remember actually.

They follow me everywhere I go.

I don’t know who they are but they never have anything nice to say.

And they don’t like it when I write.


“There is a lot of white space on this paper.
Grass is green.
Green grass is pretty too and fun to play in…”


“When we get home I hope to take the kids for walks…”




“When we get home I hope”

That’s what I needed to say.


For home was the only place left to go anyway.

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