I'll pull a henry david thoreau; isolate myself in the woods and write write write! maybe then I'll produce something of worth.
I tell people to write what they feel, to write who they are - doesn't have to be brimming with intense imagery, even a one-liner can be art.
why must we follow rules?
why must I?
there's more to poetry than elaborate odes to whoever, whichever, whatever
I'm so vacant now - I've been scooping my insides out like a succulent cantaloupe, exploiting myself all for a satisfactory poem
(isn't that the life of a poet?)
now I'm spitting out cobwebs alone waiting for the glory, the inspiration to possess me like it used to
I guess filling up these sheets in my notebook is no longer enough (nothing I do is ever enough)
meanwhile, I cover my flesh with words dedicated to you, I cover the walls foretelling our love then paint over it - but you and I both know I'll just cover the walls again soon, it's a vicious cycle
like star-crossed lovers, I will etch our initials into a tree's bark and enclose it with a lopsided heart
- haven't you noticed? everything about you and I is lopsided
and on my death bed I'll be itching to finally shut my eyes so that I'll get to see your face near mine, evermore
- make the vacancy in me worth it in the end.
