I have days where I feel zoned out and want to sleep off the day. I feel no motivation to do anything and just want to go in the mind escape of my brain.
   Then there’s part of my brain that wakes up and realizes I shouldn’t be doing this to myself. I should do something motivating. Like interacting with family and living it up, so I don’t focus on my derealization.
    Suddenly, there are days were I feel motivated and ambitious about hobbies, fashion and school.  I start to feel the burst of happiness for life.

/'kriːˈeɪtɪv·mɛs/
noun

1. it's that flash
of inspiration
adding colour
to your blank thoughts.

2. it's that exhilarating feeling
of creating something -
of actually creating something -
with your endless procrastination.

3. it's your canvas
being filled with splatters
of paint and glitter.

4. it's art.

- v.m

Every new canvas or wood I begin, starts with a mental insult, turning into a dark alley street fight. All found objects are used as weapons.
Before my image, color, category, or medium is even applied. I somehow discredit or abuse the medium through extrasensory transference or ***** looks. Or am accused of it. After that, the cloth is unforgiving and taunting. And from there, I can not be placated and must defend myself.
Slights and wounds and offensive disrespects are hurled at me in hopes of defeatism and scarring. And my retaliation is never ready. I slink out into a restless sleep and awkward day, clearing my head, deep thinking and do research for inspiration on fighting a wooden bully. The resurfacing of my retribution comes firing back with thought and truth and defense, until my opponent has heard all it will hear and dares me.
From there I take battle in slinging and taping and throwing off-color remarks at this ***** for what seems like days, until I find the weak spot. And then, just pummel. Continue and repeat with a variety of similar strokes. This is when it gets worn out and I can see progress.
Like a beam of golden light. The pressure to finally usurp and overthrow all that has distracted me, is rolled out like a red carpet until the throne is visible. With violent blacks slung up top and lower, all flavors of blue bashed in the ribcage, muddy brown and ash around the knees and lower. And all over, a melting custard of crimson red drips erratic around this terrorizing yet pleading to just finish off this piece of wood or cloth. Covered in a multitude of cheap shots, unprofessional swatches, gorgeous strokes, and derivatives, we wipe the dust and tears and blood from our eyes and finally my opponent yields, and I am congratulated on another battle well fought.

"You don't always win", the board transfers
"Many have been left undefeated and unfinshed, stay humble you're learning wisdom and patience"

These words ring with echoing sound. On my walk home, my painted and smeared, ripped body and mind contemplative of all lessons and struggles, I long to tell Annie about the war I just had.
Will she listen...?

Wait itself is as tedious
As the passing of time.

Climb,
The hands of the clock inch.
It feels like an eternity.

Certainly I pass through as before,
But still the wait is insurmountable

Countable are the minutes that pass
One, two, maybe five?

I've got til 5 before I can go.
Back to the droll of wasted time

I'm stuck on a loop of waiting and wasting, wasting and waiting.