Free Write 06.13.16

the kettle boils over once again
so here i am to pour it out

Is it fear that keeps the heart pumping
the veins visible
the blue and the red

is it hope that keeps me waking up
waiting for deliverance
I ordered that blu-ray days ago

cluttered and crowded
brain full of
cobwebs?
no, too busy in there
it's more like an empty urban storefront
picked clean in an apocalypse
maybe this one WON'T have zombies

but they're there
the shambling corpses of anxious thoughts
won't go down without a fight

well i've got news for them
i've got news for them

on fire, but not the good kind
the kind that causes
inhuman screaming
the wails of the half-living

a red barrel, a stray bullet
immolated

is it fear that keeps me from working
a feat it won't be enough?
enough for who? for me?
isn't something better than nothing?

the blank page and the canvas
and more rambling to no one
with no real format or rhyme scheme
just empty and pointless
empty and pointless

but the eyes have it
they open in that cold sweat sort of way
like 3 AM and it's too damned hot
i imagine the fire climbing to reach me
to whisk me away on black smoke
to whatever the opposite of valhalla is

I am desperate to lash out
desperate in general
swinging at phantoms
with improvised weapons

dragged away to a padded room
it'd be better if i was just crazier
it'd be better if i was just smarter
or simpler
less

hard on myself.

it's me, if i can drop the shitty metaphor
it's me, if i can flay the pretense
tear this false skin from my frame
and be reborn

there it goes again

it's me, if i can leave behind the screen door
and its effects

I keep telling myself i have to be something bigger
someone bigger
I am meant for something, but what if i'm just meant to survive?
where does that leave me?

There's a good chance this is all for nothing
the writing, i mean
there's a good chance it's the idle ravings
of someone not quite mad enough

if i were madder, I could channel it
I could fight my way through
there's so many of them
and ammunition is short
I'll use my fists

lashing out, desperately
desperate for what?
I want to feel special, and don't we all
like I have a goal in mind
but I stopped at "be a creative!"

sounded so nice at the time.

I write! look, here I am, doing it
writing
typing words, look at me go!
what a brilliant artist
what a great mind
it's okay that he's average
just regular
everywhere else in his life

broke?
not broke
not broke enough to be interesting

crazy?
not crazy,
not crazy enough to be brilliant

sad?
sure, I'm sad
but not the kind of sad
that makes good poetry

I wish it'd just get here already, the reckoning they all talk about
the collapse of the economy
our dystopian skynet future
put the computer in my brain
save me from thinking about this
save me from myself

but really? save me from working for it.
That's what it feels like, especially today
like work.

is that how it's supposed to feel? your passion?
like you have to carve off flesh to pay tribute
like you have to sacrifice comfort
(I'll have you know it's in short supply)
and then if that's it, am I unwilling?
to make the sacrifices necessary?

How far would you go to save your son?
I'd press X to Jason, but not much else, apparently
I'll leave a voicemail
I'll outline a story
I'll do a tutorial

Make something of yourself
Make something for yourself
but that's all I do is make time for me

I never have enough time! but here i am. I've got an hour. And i'm here rambling.

a distant whistle
you know what that means
Tea's on
Tea's on