The words left about 4 years ago.
Since then, some poems
a few unfinished outlines
half a song
A screenplay that took five years to
dispassionatey finish out of obligation.
And that's about it.
Nothing serious.
Nothing of particular merit.
All of it solipsistic.
Now I just grow roses.
How brief the era was when I created
When I created most every day.
When I created more than I consumed.
When I created at the expense of everything else.
When I created enough to call myself a writer.
It used to be that I would have died, readily,
if only to see my name on a shelf or a screen.
I would have died for it, I was willing.
For the success, for the acknowledgement.
For the audience, for the fame.
I would have done it all, done anything.
Anything.
If only to be good enough,
If only to have made it.
If only to have been important.
If only for a moment.
Now I just grow roses.
The words left a few years ago
and I've not even the words to wonder
how I lost them,
or where they might have gone off to.
Insincerely, I tell myself it's the brain fog.
Or the economic downturn.
Or the focus on healing my body
after a lifetime of disrepair.
Or the focus on healing my soul
after the back to back to back heartbreaks
and failures and humiliations.
But mostly I just grow roses.
I was not robbed of hope.
It did not die with a scream.
One day I awoke to realized it was gone,
and had been for quite some time.
I love without loving.
I think without thoughts.
I cry sometimes to myself and myself alone.
My daydreams remain ephemeral.
But on most days I remain mostly unbothered
by these losses
and all the others.
Now I grow roses.
May 24, 2025
May 24, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
The words left about 4 years ago.
Since then, some poems
a few unfinished outlines
half a song
A screenplay that took five years to
dispassionatey finish out of obligation.
And that's about it.
Nothing serious.
Nothing of particular merit.
All of it solipsistic.
Now I just grow roses.
How brief the era was when I created
When I created most every day.
When I created more than I consumed.
When I created at the expense of everything else.
When I created enough to call myself a writer.
It used to be that I would have died, readily,
if only to see my name on a shelf or a screen.
I would have died for it, I was willing.
For the success, for the acknowledgement.
For the audience, for the fame.
I would have done it all, done anything.
Anything.
If only to be good enough,
If only to have made it.
If only to have been important.
If only for a moment.
Now I just grow roses.
The words left a few years ago
and I've not even the words to wonder
how I lost them,
or where they might have gone off to.
Insincerely, I tell myself it's the brain fog.
Or the economic downturn.
Or the focus on healing my body
after a lifetime of disrepair.
Or the focus on healing my soul
after the back to back to back heartbreaks
and failures and humiliations.
But mostly I just grow roses.
I was not robbed of hope.
It did not die with a scream.
One day I awoke to realized it was gone,
and had been for quite some time.
I love without loving.
I think without thoughts.
I cry sometimes to myself and myself alone.
My daydreams remain ephemeral.
But on most days I remain mostly unbothered
by these losses
and all the others.
Now I grow roses.