I sit here
Every morning
Waiting
For it
To come to me
I'm begging you
Please
Don't misinterpret my silence
For apathy
Or my stillness for weakness
But your clothes are the world
And my skin weighs enough on its own

Unfortunately
The reality
Of our daily experience
Is
Easily mitigated
By our ability
To infinitely
Filter and wade through
That which we prefer to avoid

Isn't it funny
how the older
we get
the more we know
but the less
time we have
to use it

If I
Produced as much art
as the trash I consume
well
things would be different

An emptiness sits
Between us
A heavy handed silence
Commands the space
With a tyrant's fist
Lackeys for its whim
We await instructions

You look pretty tonight
His words were offered
a sacrificial lamb
Stop it
her words were spit
they had spoiled
What once was playful
Has grown too old for games
She sits outside the circle
And watches the fools dance

Everytime I sit down
to draw
I expect to see
my brain fall onto the paper
but instead
i see
my fragile scratchings
fall short
of some standard they cant understand