It's cold in here.
It's cold in here and my motivation is broken.
It's in the corner, down in a heap on my **** carpeting.
I should vacuum but i'm too brain dead to care about the state of my floor.
I'd rather lay here, in a heap on my bathroom floor,
Listening to gypsy punk and learning about burrow owls.
Later, my creativity is flowing.
I spit sentences onto sketchy pages
Cover them with subconsciously related pictures.
I rediscover drawing charcoal
And smear a dusky porch view out.
Glass boxes whir and ripple around me.
I fantasize about what it would feel like
To have my lungs flap open and sweep with water.
Sometimes I wonder if i'm dying.