I write in public,
to be seen,
I need these preppy girls,
and closeted high schoolers,
and trophy wives,
to see me,
at my laptop,
clicking away.
Because I'm "artistic",
and "deep".
I am sensitive and must
be very beautiful
on the inside,
just like the outside.
That's why I do it.
It's all about the glory.
If only the knew the truth,
the real writing,
the words that smack the
inside of your skull
at 3 AM
when you have to be at
your minimum wage job
at 7.
The lit you need to get out
before the pressure builds up
and your head explodes
in a rainbow of creativity
on the four walls of your
too small
efficiency apartment.
The dark nights that
make you doubt the sun
will appear again
O muse, you cannot be
stifled. I hear your voice
even in my
starched white shirt
and necktie noose,
making lattés
and serving time
until The End.
The End. Times wing'ed
seraphim, the bell
tolling, tolling,
constantly,
Am I doing the right
thing with my life?
Every soul ******* interaction
with the over-privileged,
self-righteous soccer moms,
screams injustice.
My place, here,
is not to work to write,
but write to work.
My place, here,
is to live authentically,
to my own self be true,
and true, to those voices,
who came before,
who had the courage
of their convictions,
and the pounding of
text on the interior
of their cranium,
to write.
Writing is raw,
and obscene, and
beautiful.
Standing naked,
exposed, raw,
ugly
in front of your peers.
wolves.
A vow of poverty
a release of material claims
and a gain of authenticity
Living truly and truly living,
This is why I write.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
I write in public,
to be seen,
I need these preppy girls,
and closeted high schoolers,
and trophy wives,
to see me,
at my laptop,
clicking away.
Because I'm "artistic",
and "deep".
I am sensitive and must
be very beautiful
on the inside,
just like the outside.
That's why I do it.
It's all about the glory.
If only the knew the truth,
the real writing,
the words that smack the
inside of your skull
at 3 AM
when you have to be at
your minimum wage job
at 7.
The lit you need to get out
before the pressure builds up
and your head explodes
in a rainbow of creativity
on the four walls of your
too small
efficiency apartment.
The dark nights that
make you doubt the sun
will appear again
O muse, you cannot be
stifled. I hear your voice
even in my
starched white shirt
and necktie noose,
making lattés
and serving time
until The End.
The End. Times wing'ed
seraphim, the bell
tolling, tolling,
constantly,
Am I doing the right
thing with my life?
Every soul ******* interaction
with the over-privileged,
self-righteous soccer moms,
screams injustice.
My place, here,
is not to work to write,
but write to work.
My place, here,
is to live authentically,
to my own self be true,
and true, to those voices,
who came before,
who had the courage
of their convictions,
and the pounding of
text on the interior
of their cranium,
to write.
Writing is raw,
and obscene, and
beautiful.
Standing naked,
exposed, raw,
ugly
in front of your peers.
wolves.
A vow of poverty
a release of material claims
and a gain of authenticity
Living truly and truly living,
This is why I write.