i cannot create today.
or at any other hour
though i scour each and every day
searching
for that special moment
where my brain finally produces
an idea.
a thought.
a way to express the things that
I cannot,
will not
feel.
but time passes
and grasses cover the pages
where my skin used to bleed creation
and now there is nothing.
nothing but green,
or thats what its supposed to be.
and now my muted tones
have seeped into the very soul
of livelihood.
greens to grays
no more living for them.
i ****** them all dry with
my dire need to please
no more fancy lip work from me
only blank stares at a blank screen.
fingers poised in a dance with only air
because words come from mouths and only hurt,
or at least that's what i was taught.
not that you or i can ever make a difference.
words?
who for?