I want to know about your art.
Don’t tell me you’re not an artist. We all are.
I see the places you
To cover up.
From wherever you decide to
Any sooner is like trying
To butter cold toast.
It is always on time, and available to
You, exactly where you are.
No one cares about your ideas, really.
Even if you’re convinced they’re unique.
No one has done it. Not this way.
My way is
Special. Different. Beyond belief insane.
Stop being such a perfectionist.
Yes, we all want to learn, and grow, but Mozart
Didn’t become a
Of unplayed symphonies.
Art is suffering. It doesn’t have to be alone, or
In vain. We don’t have to create vices to drive
Us insane. Let your
Do that alone.
You’ll find it well-equipped, and this
Is when you need to pay attention
To the shapes the
On the wall
Are making behind your back.
Write when you love yourself. When it’s all
Rainbow-pooping unicorns, and
Are coming into your house to do
Your fucking laundry in
Write when you hate yourself. When you
Hate your stupid life, and you have
To impart. Write out of your own
Sickened anguish. Type with one hand
While licking your wounds.
Tie your bandages
Write when your eyes burn. When you know
Your mind. When you swear you will
Make up a story about someone
Who sounds a bit like you and has
You want. Burn that story, write another
About someone you want to know who
Has lost everything but has
So sincere about herself that there’s no
For fear she may just utter the most
Profound sentence you’ve ever heard,
While you’ve gone off
Go, meet her. Buy her another cup of coffee.
Stay awake to show up. Sit at the diner
All night long
How you see her
I want to lick off the paper.
This is what I want to know.
Dedicated to the talented Rahul, who sent my brain into a happy, and rather unexpected spiral the other day.