five minutes in heaven
sitting here at lamp light
im wondering what im writing and why im trying
why even try to put words to intangible things
conceited belief that what i have to say is relatable or new
looking for writing contests
when the contest is only with the self
and embarrased to even write a line like that
but i learned in art class not to erase but to
be more concerned with the INITIAL
but whats the point of art class when this is not something that can be TAUGHT
its just experiences, right?
didn't hemingway teach us that? it is pretentious to bring up
sad, dead authors that died for their work when
im sitting here by horse-lamp, writing things nobody will read
drinking things to give me the boldness i need to commit things
to words that are only half-felt...
The moon passes across the sun as does doubt cross in front of my belief in my self.
I've been worried lately about something
hard to define, a suspension of self
in the sky; battery and darkness.
I want to be eclipsed, temporarily,
and left in the shadow of something small,
but still a part of me. Unrestrained
to live out these fantasies. To be alone
and unchaste; resigned to the moon
in my heart, I want to be corrupted.