This is the place where ideas flow
Like cheap coffee from glass pot.
A place that only I may know
Designed with trinkets to unclot.
Wooden boards I laid out and sanded
Screwed to one another, they mingle
They support my tapping handed
Down to my keyboard to make jingle.
This sacred place, my sanctuary
Denver lies in the corner, curled.
She feels safe here when she is wary.
I give her pets when my thoughts are furled.
Books are laid everywhere, I’m fine with it.
I know it bothers you, their haphazard spread.
I will get to them, I just need to write a bit.
Half of them being half read.
My favorite book? You already know.
I wrote it myself in Moleskin.
A little black book half full,
Of poems, half finished.
Someday, I might just
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