It is so hard to think sometimes, when your brain doesn’t work.
Your veins will move and blood will pulse and things will work on time,
But, unfortunately this means nothing.
When writing generally flows out of me
like blood from a wound
or water from an overflowing damn,
today they fight their way out
like little Indians shoving spears through my insides
until they have torn little bits of inside
and turned them into outside.
It is so hard to write these things
redundant redundant redundant and repetitive,
when I have no passion for them.
I do not like to rip apart poetry
because it is a form of art,
and who on Earth would shred a Monet?
the uneducated.
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