I can’t be an artist,
because I am impatient.
I’m too impatient
for this paint to dry.
I couldn’t hold off
words. Too lazy
to open a new
document, and still
too careful to
leave marks of
cheap water colors
on the back side
of the last
I can be an
aren’t real. They
exist merely in
my mind. My
mind may not
be tangible, and
cannot be put
it’s buried in my skull,
the one who is easily put into words
lives tangibly on these pages
but the one who is not so briefly lyricized
lives on repeat in my mind
tonight, you are both of these people.
the world is linear,
with some people walking bigger up above.
and we are as small as the bumps on the ceiling
but still, sometimes we space out
while lying with our eyes to the sky
and we study those bumps.
but soon we move on and we cannot find them again,
even if we cared to.
we buy things that we’ll never wear
and we say we’ll paint the walls in the kitchen
but we never do
‘cos we are not those people up above.
and we are nothing more than tiny dots on an endless timeline
yet we remember to feed our pets twice a day
and we open the windows even when the weather isn’t ideal
and we exist somewhere,
even if just as a dent in a warehouse floor
— The End —