I pretend my life is a show these days. I'm the star, with my sub-par dancing abilities. Not even a week later, my withdrawal is full force. No pun intended. Every song is a new number. Every movement means the world. Posture! Smiles! It's been far too long, my friend.
love generation.
I need to get these juices flowing again. Passionless, I flounder. I may not be great, but it's something. Don't argue with that. Something's better than nothing. Two minutes in heaven is better than one minute in heaven. Grammatical errors be damned. Essays, excuse my friend, but please go fuck yourselves. These forced exercises of something so rightfully mine are tiring. Papers filled with bullshit surrounded by facts & evidence. Where's the emotion? This does not suffice.
pen to paper &... flow.
Picture perfect sitting there. Not you or him or her. But it. Confusing, perhaps. So perfect in it's natural state. Contrast. As if I know what that means. Focus. Maybe it's the camera, maybe it's me. Maybe I don't have what it takes. But I want it. I want what I see on film. Memories, beauty. Cover my walls. This summer's mission, perhaps.
Pose.
Unstrung in the corner it sits. Begging to be played, to be relearned. Skill faded with time. Sunshine beating down, tank top & a pair of shorts playing what I want to hear. What I need to hear. Another mission. Time wasted in the sun this time without the sheets telling me which finger goes where. I'll show you! I'll play from the heart. I'll play from the soul. Sitting on the balcony, I'll play a random configuration of notes & claim it to be art.
Fill my ears with beauty.
From the tenth floor, they'll be recaptured. Relearned. Remastered. From the beginning. Passions escape me no longer.
Passionate beauty emanate.
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