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quick little jots
i'm trying to spur my mind, get it back in the emotional, poetic form.. so here are a few rigid attempts
the worry settles with every sip
searching for the tragedy in my life
waving my hand above it
stirring whisps of the desperation
making it dance for you
swallowing quickly now
pausing to feel my heavy thoughts drain out
i've cheated myself out of this
an exhibition of will would be
if not for my stone face
i'm bailing out the guilt
with buckets of bitter drink
as i drift the mellowing seas
the sacrifice seems silly now
as words fail when I need them most
....
why did I have to be a writer when I could have written a thousand words with a brush stroke?
The desperation and the lust I feel could be felt by others... by anyone.
I could have invoked sadness, laughter, or even shock, but I had to be a wordsmith.
Nobody reads poetry, though.
Nobody cares to disect it.
I could write fifteen different patterns into a piece and not get a response.
Meanwhile, some yuppy just sold a canvas with a mauve dot in the bottom right corner, for forty-five bucks.
I could have been brilliant, universal, adored.
Instead, I'm pretentious.
Oh, why did I have to be a writer?
Because while art may move people, words direct them.
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