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SparrowfrecklesPoems
for the past few weeks, my daily caloric in-take has consisted of nothing but caffine, nicotine, and a good bit of **** if that counts. i've been bogged down by a few pounds of literary build-up, clinging to my cell walls. characters and commas, just pleading to be plucked from their scatter-brained current state of nothingness, and be re-arragned- brought to life by a breath of structure and fore-head kiss of charm. writer's block. an itchy wool blanket of complacent composition blues draped over my freckled shoulders, in hopes of sheilding me from a down-pour of inspiration. i never asked to be pretected from my own thoughts, so stop, fickle whispers of failure. i'm on the rise. i close my eyes and plunder my brain for the misplaced directions to the exit of the ball-point duldrum, i know they're around here somewhere. i've got thirty three trash bags of pointless memories, and not one of them can help me. so i hoist the sails and viciously exhale, sending myself out to sea where i'll be free to raise the nets dragging on the floor, and sort through the mooshed-up words to turn them into something more.
0
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
catch and release.
for the past few weeks, my daily caloric in-take has consisted of nothing but caffine, nicotine, and a good bit of **** if that counts. i've been bogged down by a few pounds of literary build-up, clinging to my cell walls. characters and commas, just pleading to be plucked from their scatter-brained current state of nothingness, and be re-arragned- brought to life by a breath of structure and fore-head kiss of charm. writer's block. an itchy wool blanket of complacent composition blues draped over my freckled shoulders, in hopes of sheilding me from a down-pour of inspiration. i never asked to be pretected from my own thoughts, so stop, fickle whispers of failure. i'm on the rise. i close my eyes and plunder my brain for the misplaced directions to the exit of the ball-point duldrum, i know they're around here somewhere. i've got thirty three trash bags of pointless memories, and not one of them can help me. so i hoist the sails and viciously exhale, sending myself out to sea where i'll be free to raise the nets dragging on the floor, and sort through the mooshed-up words to turn them into something more.
Sparrowfreckles
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Sparrowfreckles
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
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