The Writer

I lay in my bed and write,
Wrapped up in blankets, fan blasting
The edges of my life flipping up,
I dream.

I can feel the cool wind
On my face, the fabric against my toes.
In the pitter-patters on my pencil
I scream.

I stare out the window past the trailers, the trees
Unfocused past the streetlights, and into the clouds,
Onto bigger and better things
I fly.

Not looking back, not erasing,
Not crossing out, not forgetting
The mistakes I made to get here.