Birthday poem that just kind of spilt out as I sat at my desk at work.

Watching my roommate draw, she literally sniffed the colored pencils to tell the colors apart. Also she can’t cook for sh*t.

Between the cardboard covers there is paper and there is ink. There are smudges, doodles, coffee stains, and black scribbles marking mistakes. There is the occasional legible word. There are black, white, the occasional blue, sometimes red, but never pink. There are no confessions, no revelations, no confidences, no revolutions, no contemplations and no resignations….