inspiration (searching for)
it started with a moleskin i keep on my passenger seat
just in case i’m struck with inspiration. before,
i would roll up windows, turn off car, open apartment door,
drop everything, find pen (pressing it down til it bleeds
all over) only to find i’d have nothing to say, it was gone, lost.
so i write, at midnight, in a car with the windows down even
though it’s 90 degrees because i love the sound of a train
whistling, ache with the wind scraping trees to create a voice
for himself, but all he can muster is a scream because i’m
afraid i might lose some genius or moment i’ve been waiting
a(n albeit short) lifetime for.
i read my words aloud, trying to make them fit, puzzle pieces
when the picture is just ocean and sky. but the sound of my voice
clashes against the unquiet silence; the result is harsh and unnatural.
in the end i can only think this one thing, with words that refuse to mesh:
i wish you’d get out of my head. i wish you’d leave me to… whatever.
i wish you’d let me pretend. leave me alone where i’m at my best. beautiful
alone. where there’s no need to lie, truths are pointless to hide (here,
I’m the only one speaking, and God’s the only one listening). let me lie.
i want to say this all perfectly. i want to scream it, my voice riding
wind through trees. but pen poised, i lose all my courage. coward:
a dreamer who grew up. (damn dreams, the only thing that keeps
me from forgetting what i’m missing.)