the guitar yells at me for not picking him up
the bass hides in the closet, feeling neglected
the drums are hollow and dull now, forgotten
the voice has left my throat, hiding somewhere
the poem disappeared under the weight of words
the paint evaporated much quicker than dried
the thoughts vacated before they ever moved in
the words were lost before even I was founded
the the the the the the the the the the the the the
the art is abandoned by those who can't follow
the lost sounds, ideas, pictures, and madness.

Press my pen to this blank canvas.
Let the words flow out like the blood of a freshly opened wound.
Just cut a little deeper, dig a little further.
Tap into a passion, raw and uncut.
Don't think. Just feel.

I've come so far from the past,

And I don't know where I'm going,

And I don't know where I'll be,

But I'm heading in the direction,

Of a something I don't recognize.

A place called happy.