The lines don’t want out anymore.
They are comfortable in me.
When put to the page,
They squirm and thrash about.
These lines want nothing to do with art.
They fight against the stagnant realm
Of paper and pens.
Where lines aren’t free and rarely move.
Where marks are certain and permanent.
Where nothing changes except the faces.
Who can blame them?
I hate this place too.
I was comfortable for an eternity
Before fate brought me to be.
And now I fight and squirm-
writhing with ideas, only to be confined
By space and time,
The limitations of matter and mind.
Tortured by the longings of the body,
And the mortality of the soul.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
The lines don’t want out anymore.
They are comfortable in me.
When put to the page,
They squirm and thrash about.
These lines want nothing to do with art.
They fight against the stagnant realm
Of paper and pens.
Where lines aren’t free and rarely move.
Where marks are certain and permanent.
Where nothing changes except the faces.
Who can blame them?
I hate this place too.
I was comfortable for an eternity
Before fate brought me to be.
And now I fight and squirm-
writhing with ideas, only to be confined
By space and time,
The limitations of matter and mind.
Tortured by the longings of the body,
And the mortality of the soul.
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