My! Wilton, I disapprove.

I am an anxious, unconfident knot of flesh that cannot uncoil and bloom under all of this.

I am a chalk drawing on the side of the road.

The girl with the pearl earring, the proof of a life once lived delicately, knowingly, deliberately. Proof of a homeless past long left behind, of talent so rich, and yet too poor to be put on canvas. Proof of a memory so persistant, the driving rain couldn’t wash away the inspiration that created me. I am eternal.

I’m reborn every time the desire to thrive rises beyond the road grates and spills itself all over the brick walkway.

I die when the will of flowers and trees to live outweighs my own, and the rain drip drip drips, washing the images of me, of chalk dust expressions of myself down, back down the underground pipes of a city I’ve not seen, but where I know I belong.

I want to make more of the kind of art that makes me lose track of time and shake after I’ve finished it. I want to create beautiful things with my mind and my hands, and I want to surround myself with them, making my home look more and more like my mind all the time, if that makes sense. I feel as if I expressed myself through art and displayed it in my home it would make it all feel more like it was mine (whether it is or not). That kind of feeling of ownership is important to me. I want to develop what skills I do have, and I want to improve so badly.

I want to rid myself of this guilt I carry around with me like sand in my pockets, still there after washing. I feel guilty for what I’m doing, what I’m not doing and what I should be doing instead. No one is telling me what to do but me right now, and yet there’s still this unseen, unheard pressure on me to conform to something that I’m not even sure of. I know I’m being vague, but there are others who know of what I speak. There’s a better way for me, and I’m trying my best to get there, and bask in it.


It’s coming, I can feel it – a quick and quiet stranger, writing in a dimly lit corner of a bar. My rocky vodka channeling my lives behind me, and my dreams before. Song after song beating out line after line eye-tying line of poetry spattering onto a page like drunken demon-ejecting heaves of mind. Catharsis.


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