Start of something more

Isn’t it time, yet? Surely enough time has passed between the initial ignition

And the presently mundane. But maybe the inspiration never occurred –

No, that’s a lie. That’s an excuse. Around every corner,

Conspicuous and dark there is that feeling.

An inevitability, no matter how cliche

A choice. That moment.

To put the black pseudo-ink on a bright white page

Or the pencil to the finely lined notebook,

making that decision is fatalistic.

There’s no going back to the safe space within your head.

Memories flood through your mind

It’s the Missouri River pushing you back

And under the current.

 

I fit the mold – tortured artist uninspired by daily life.

The Words always seem to flow better without letters

Thoughts are poetry without structure

But that won’t get you a book deal.

Instead, I step into a different body,

And become an alien.

The universe around me, foreign and

Inaccessible to my innermost id.

Superficial smiles, management of people

Who will go on without me.

I am not myself here.

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