please, pablo
I spent a week on the couch, sick. Then I came back to school trying to manage enough energy to get everything done that I needed to get done. Then I fell down the stairs and was on crutches until I tried to walk because I had a show this week. It's over now and the creative energy is absolutely gone.
Nothing.
I can't even cut a damn monologue into something that means something or says something or feels something. Sometimes when I feel too much I don't know how to. I dont know. I dont know. I'm stuck. And I don't want to do my graphics project. Tracing meaningless bends with a french curve and making 1/4 inch scale models of my dorm room and getting graphite all over my fingers somehow doesn't start my creative flow very well. I wish something that came from my soul was beautiful. I wish that I could sit and that everything that flowed from my fingers and pen and body made something that meant something.
I pause in houses street and elevators touching things identifying objects that I secretly covet
you are not a grave a tomb or a coffin you are preservation hidden fire fields of rubies guide just one of your thousand emeralds to my mouth to the point of my pen to my inkwell at just the right moment when most i need it grant me a syllable shudder or note
a seed
i am made of earth and my song is made of words
Nothing.
I can't even cut a damn monologue into something that means something or says something or feels something. Sometimes when I feel too much I don't know how to. I dont know. I dont know. I'm stuck. And I don't want to do my graphics project. Tracing meaningless bends with a french curve and making 1/4 inch scale models of my dorm room and getting graphite all over my fingers somehow doesn't start my creative flow very well. I wish something that came from my soul was beautiful. I wish that I could sit and that everything that flowed from my fingers and pen and body made something that meant something.
I pause in houses street and elevators touching things identifying objects that I secretly covet
you are not a grave a tomb or a coffin you are preservation hidden fire fields of rubies guide just one of your thousand emeralds to my mouth to the point of my pen to my inkwell at just the right moment when most i need it grant me a syllable shudder or note
a seed
i am made of earth and my song is made of words