Abrupt ending.
An obnoxious finale, the beginnings
Of a rude awakening.
No,
We are not the same.
The long pauses of burnt emotions
That the heart is afire.
But the tongue extinguishes
All hope of vanquish.
So farewell for now,
I am letting go.
Till i feel this way again
Same time,
Tomorrow night.
forgive my lackluster, feeble attempt, i believe its called 'writer's block'.
the source?
the incompetent male species.
oh wait, its time to stop complaning.
fine.
lets blame it on an incompetent mind.
all i want to do is hide under the covers and dive into Steinbeck.
and Buck, and Atwood, and the rest of my neglected bookcase.
the words, pills to take me far far away.
i want to sit under a maple tree and write my heart out.
i'll use my pen and scratch my initials in till amber seeps from the wounded bark.
or maybe the bees and i could come to some agreement,
then i could have complete access to honeycomb.
thats all i want really.
to embrace art, and life.
or the art of life.
who knows these days.
what word is there to explain paroxysmal outburts of hollow?
insanity?
yes, i believe so.
