cotton-candy dreams; tie dye shirt and light-wash jeans. and don’t you just wish that the bloodstains, soaking into your carpet would finally fade out?
close the door. and crash into your pillow; trying to ignore the silhouettes of kings and queens, staring down at you. but it has to be worth it. because you are nothing if not devout.
hold your breath, and count down the seconds. scrub away every last scrap of doubt.
as their words begin to strangle you; a hundred thousand screams, and shouts. as the neon signs remind you of all the things that you just can’t live without.
long sunday afternoons spent in your bedroom…. as the drought of suburbia starts to set in around you.
bloodstains scattered through page after page, spelling out my doom. and there must be something i’m forgetting about… because i don’t know what’s true.
Full disclosure: I am writing this far, far later than I really should be. I normally try and edit one poem a day, so I can post four pieces every Friday, but in reality that just doesn’t always happen, because, well, I’m tired, and I have a life and a job and a lot of other projects going on, and…. yeah. It’s a lot.
The way I learned to work… well, I always saw it as something you give your whole self too. An all-consuming god you were destined to spend the rest of your life slaving away for. I guess I was always kind of all right with that idea.
Of course, as I got older and actually started to take on projects and got my first jobs, I obviously realized that level of dedication is not physically possible–or if it is, I’m not cut out for it, and I do need to sleep sometimes.
Which lead me to where I am now. These insane spurts of productivity, where I’ll spend eight hours straight with at most a little coffee break writing, and recording, and editing–mixed with long, endless days where I just don’t want to do, say, or feel anything; when I ignore any and all impending deadlines. Days when I am just so tired.
And they feed off each other; because obviously at some point, usually very late at night, I’m going to wake up from my confused, exhausted state, and realize that I have a weeks worth of work to get done in the next four hours… and then enter what I like to all “Alexander Hamilton” mode. (You get it? Because Hamilton was a writer too who would work non-stop to get what he wanted, and to be honest a concerningly relatable character for me… okay, yeah, I’m just going to stop and go to sleep now.) Anyhow, then I get tired–and go right back into depression, and the cycle continues.
Anyway, it’s a bad habit. And one I really wish I could drop.
Lots of love,