May 2014
He gave me a pen and paper
and told me to write. I pressed
the pen down and watched it
bleed blue. He clutched my wrist
and drew a box no bigger
than a matchstick. Write.
I was struck up more like lightening
than an intelligent conversation.
This sliver of a sliver of tree pulp
was my canvas, but I made do.
and told me to write. I pressed
the pen down and watched it
bleed blue. He clutched my wrist
and drew a box no bigger
than a matchstick. Write.
I was struck up more like lightening
than an intelligent conversation.
This sliver of a sliver of tree pulp
was my canvas, but I made do.
I'm not sure if this will apply, but I'm going to try to write more freely without worrying about eloquence or simile. I adore the lyricism of The Mountain Goats and The Front Bottoms because I've come to find that they are the most honest, creative songwriters out there. Not every word is of high diction, but there are fluctuations. The beautiful words come from the ugly ones, just like watermelons grow in the dirt. I want to focus less on the world around me and more on events that I could piece together sensory information of.
