Someone told me that inspiration comes in the form of an explosion
Another told me David came drifting through their ***** ceiling with a notecard in hand

Well I’m staring at my ceiling
In this library
And saying, the hell he does…

God doesn’t send me angels.
Inspiration is not hiding in a carbonated can that I just have to crack

Inspiration comes to me from a PlayDo machine
Something I grind and feed
Sometimes there’s something
Sometimes it’s all dried up
It comes in chunky nuggets, or smooth pasta

But it needs to be massaged
You need trained muscles, oiled gears
Writer’s block is negligence
Rusty cars never start

Wear Blue
Start Rituals
And write
Write
Write

In my own world id'e be made
out of playdo'h, and the
colour purple id'e be.
The place i can learn to be me,
start to be me...
I have something no one else has,
my inner light.
The colour purple i think id'e like.
yeah it shine's. And pretty ****
bright too, i might say.
I see it as a strength
after all it's a bit like this poem
it 'kinda' make's sense.

drape me
onto the table use me to wipe your crumbs stuff your face i
am only skin
(I am) your playdo (you are) my creator my beginning but most importantly
my end
put me through the wash nine times this week still cant remove the stain
youputitthereyouputitthere; why are you mad at me for remembering
kids sit around me like im a ******* disney princess
i can be that for the kids because i have the empathy you have always lacked
and i know what it feels like to sit in your little futon on the floor as your eyes well up with the salty sea because I don't know when I''ll ever be the same as I was or if I'll ever be again.
bite into me like i'm dessert spit me out like i'm sour milk
dishwasher oven
i'm clinging to myself
i am the tablecloth
unnoticed but appreciated when its time to wipe off the ****** up lies your mom told you about yourself and i will happily comply