My head is out of words.
I cannot recall melodies.
Routine has killed my inspiration.
I now know nothing, but rushed repertoire.
I have no time to think and feel like a human,
Like a programmed robot.
My creativity has worn off.
I hate thinking like a formula with one answer.
I want to see worlds within this world.
I want creativity to soar from my fingers out to my toes
To the point where the magic flies out of my ears and it never stops.
Conditioned to a cubicle with paperwork can only be tolerable for so long.
How can one not carry a notebook around in an atmosphere like that?