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It seems I’ve written myself into a corner~ pages piling up like overexcited puppies, yapping for a home. My desk groans under the weight of poems, memoirs, and drafts~ half-finished brilliance, and that one story I swear I’ll revise someday. The solution seems obvious another filing cabinet~ a shiny metal monument to my writing compulsion. But where to put the thing in this tiny office already stuffed with creativity and questionable organizational choices. Then it hits me the closet~ that mysterious portal where abandoned sweaters go to retire. It’ll fit snugly inside like it was always meant to be there, guarding my words like a loyal metal dragon. Problem solved… for now until the next poem arrives demanding its own drawer and the closet starts whispering, “Don’t even think about it.”
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