My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.
I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum
To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth
And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,
So desperately catcalling my attention.
I live in a creative vacuum,
From the hum of the fan
And the slamming of the doors,
To the static from the TV set
And the voices. Those voices.
I feel there is a poem in me
Or a song,
That will claim the hearts of others
And tug on the hems of their peripheries
Just as these homely distractions do to me.
Until then I must write and write harrowingly.
I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius
And throw back the paradigms put forth
By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.
I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age
But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,
Making me cower at this transient life
And again I find myself at a desk by the window
Feverish, so feverish.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.
I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum
To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth
And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,
So desperately catcalling my attention.
I live in a creative vacuum,
From the hum of the fan
And the slamming of the doors,
To the static from the TV set
And the voices. Those voices.
I feel there is a poem in me
Or a song,
That will claim the hearts of others
And tug on the hems of their peripheries
Just as these homely distractions do to me.
Until then I must write and write harrowingly.
I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius
And throw back the paradigms put forth
By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.
I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age
But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,
Making me cower at this transient life
And again I find myself at a desk by the window
Feverish, so feverish.
Request permission to use this poem