I don’t feel much like creating today.
Perhaps that’s the time to do it. Push
yourself. I don’t feel like my writing
speaks to people today. I feel like
there’s some boundary between me
and them. The ideas make sense in
my mind, but to no one else’s.
Maybe I’m the greatest writer who
ever lived. How would I know? Is it
simply a confidence thing? Walking
around town with wing-tipped shoes
and a certain saunter that only the
greats know about?
I think the greatest ones are those
crushed with pain. I think if you called
them the greatest ever, they would wince
and cry at the thought. Truth is, you
probably don’t know what it costs them.
Truth is, you have no idea why they do
what they do. It’s not for money. It’s not
for fame. It’s because demons live inside
them and the pen is the only way to draw
Just because a poem is beautiful, doesn’t
mean it came from beauty.