There used to be a time where I would write myself to sleep.
Pad of paper, pencil or pen in hand
In the middle of writing, I would suddenly be in a slumber.
My roommate at the time would mention it
But never in jest
He knew how the words would flow from me.
Notebooks, loose paper, pay stubs, restaurants receipts.
No piece of paper was safe from anything that
would whisper across my mind
***
love, sex, hope, dreams
covered countless pages.
Sometimes it was happy times in my life
Sometimes not
Sometimes it was simply a question of why things were…
***
I travel from place to another
Sometimes in my mind
Other times in my dreams
Most of the time in the reality that is supposed to be my life
Looking for some spark
Some tingle of my fingers
Waiting for that moment that crosses my muse like headline news…
…just in…
Art… go out and be creative
Ha!
But now
It’s a dissipating smoke screen
In an empty room.
At least when the room was foggy
There was a reason.
***
I look for the deeper meaning in everything
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all because I’m looking too hard
Forcing my eyes to see.
Or I wonder if I because I’ve grown
And love, sex, hope, dreams
Have out grown my pen
Out grown the creative process
Because everything else I read is
In all of it...
...and I want to be different
Bring something new to Atlas’ shoulders
So not to burden him with the weight of yet
One
more
measly
love
story
for
the
masses.