never not reminded of my old flames
nostalgia creeps into my brain so many different ways
thinking about warmer days
I've got notebooks filling up their pages
and another past life fades into the background noise
my brain is so busy
feels my talent is being slept on
but everyone feels similarly
everything is so ******* poetic it's overwhelming
but inspiration isn't self sustaining
you've gotta keep that **** alive
and answer when it ******* calls
I have to stop pressing ignore
I have to stop keeping score
I'm capable of so much more
I don't have time for much of anything else
I'm sleeping in on myself