Brushing my teeth

Sometimes I find myself trying to force out a poem

squeezing metaphors and similes out

like my words are toothpaste at the bottom of the tube.

The words come fleetingly so I grab and paste them together;

parts of a nonsensical collage.

An attempt to find meaning

out of the nouns and verbs that tumble out of my memories,

landing on the floor in a pile of rubbish,

or as toothpaste on my toothbrush.

But if I take a step back,

notice the rusty drain in my sink,

the dark brown hair that curls on the counter,

the paint chip off my light blue mirror frame,

I realize that I already brushed my teeth this morning.

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