tattoo mold growing just under the skin,
flesh-eating, discolored, growing into the bones,
the surface simmers with a dying breath
escaping through lungs that can’t forget
i woke up late
and i feel rushed,
but not in a real way, not like i need
to hurry through my routine,
though i guess one could say,
it might be helpful to have a routine
to begin with, but sometimes i like to pretend i do
i have this idea in my head,
and it’s silly, i know; even before telling you or typing it out,
i know that it’s irrational, silly, and stupid,
but i can’t help but think,
if i don’t write down at least one idea per day,
then somehow the entire world will end,
and i won’t have been able to see
what came of it all in its final moments
Fred Aiken Writing 