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.