Orange Sunshine

The ink flows onto the paper
like a spring shower,
words blossom into flowers,
roses, daisies, lilies
and carnations bloom, 
a garden of poetry.

But as I continue to write
dandelions, wild grasses 
and other weeds sprout.

My pen turns into a machete
hacking, slashing, slicing
through the jungle and jumble
of overgrowth choking the page.

Later I realize not to write
after drinking the left over orange
juice from one of Debbie’s
and Donna’s weekend parties.