the novel inside me

the novel still lives inside me and i'm not sure it
will ever come out.

i don't want to fight it.

i must coax it.

with oppression all around
and a lack of any real love
it is harder to let it escape.

the novel inside me beckons me
to lock myself in the garage
until it's done with me,
escaped to the page
in front of me,
no longer
tearing out
my inside that is
inside of me, hidden
and carefully camoflauged
so as not to mistake it
for everyday thoughts
and memories and
emotions. the
spilled milk
is still on
the floor.

will someone
clean it up
eventually?

the rich kid
who owns the
building and
is his grand
father's slave
until he passes
away was riding
around on a bike
today and i was
getting off of
work and i was

interrupted,
breakdown,
lug nuts
corrupted,
with no spare
tire to compare
to the tired moments
unfolding in front of me
now, as the novel peeks its
head out and wonders if yes,
now is the time to appear.