I cannot seem to gain a wink of sleep
As I lie here and will my eyes to close.
Admittedly the prospect is quite bleak;
Consciously searching for some slight repose
When darkness is when my minds thoughts expose
Themselves, seizing the chance to smash together;
fleeting insights come and abscond in droves.
For my mind know no fair nor pleasant weather.
A harmless storm, but all my thoughts are feathers.
I'm drifting off, but the storm, still it roars.
Benign as it may be, it's quite the tremor
When the rain of four-a.m. decides to pour.

When I awake perhaps I'll some recall,
Or likely, I'll remember none at all.

Artists are made every day;
bitterly.
Made after the heat strikes against and burns them.
And yet they see the world for its
chilly self.

Logic is for cowards;
for those too afraid to venture even into their own minds
and those who tell us that we cannot build taller towers,
despite being proven wrong, again and again.

Logic is for crowd followers;
for those who “can’t be bothered” to carve their own paths
and those who never seem to question why society fits them with stiff collars,
despite the headaches they get, again and again.

Logic is for bureaucracies;
for those who value process and protocol over production
and those who’d rather be caught in red tape than risk falling,
despite watching others learn to fly, again and again.
Logic is for cowards.

As the last trace of light
fades over the lake in the distance.
And as the last lamp is switched off.
The darkness is infectious.
And those lucky or misfortunate enough
to catch the sensation,
Smile.
Or gasp.
This is the end of the illuminating day.
So run.
Or play along.
Grab a match and some gasoline
Because the night has just begun.
And all the twisted, crazy and disturbed,
Are about to have some fun.

I find it hard
to take all the raw emotion of life
and place it precisely on the canvas.
I find it much more effective,
to throw, splatter, smear, spray, dot, and slap
whatever color of whatever material
that your eyes draw you to
all over the canvas and unfortunate surroundings.
It’s a better form of expression.
Is it confusing?
Potentially.
Is it complex?
Incredibly.
Can anybody besides the artist discover its story?
Probably not.
But life just can’t be represented in a fixed way.
Or perhaps…
I’m just bad
at placing paint precisely on a canvas.

We spin words with expert precision,
making strange bones dance.
As if life hangs on our decision,
we spin words with expert precision.
Insane; are we the definition?
There is more than a chance.
It’s how we spin words with expert precision,
making strange bones dance.