I spent the night creating,
painting,
sighing.
I sipped some water, my paintbrush sipped some water before being thrusted into a smear of color once more.
All the while I sat listening to sad songs from the 1950s
All of them complete with lots of twang and a few young bucks howling into microphones over lost lovers.
Leisure, and for what?
I’m beginning to think I was weaned on restlessness.
For I crave destruction each full moon
In despite of my perpetual need to create.
I run around looking a fright.
Cutting statues and watching them bleed marble blood,
Burning paintings just to hear them howl and drip.