Everything is dripping
She thinks
Even crafts half created
hang from driftwood
Tied to dirty windows
Sunlight dangling
In wait,
No modesty
In that which she despises
Inspired by what is not hers
Loses luster
Dented with lament
This moment with this
Shitty piece
Hyperfixated on
What it is not
Thoughts of
What else is not
Stick themselves here too
Art,
Like a fart
She cannot
Will it to pass
But still, there is discomfort
The ruckus that rattles inside my mind
Hiding from a center I cannot find
I fidget and fixate
Distracted, then I ruminate
Until a new question arrives:
Is it this that which I must illuminate?
Perhaps there is a power here
A truth-telling to make it all clear
Injustice abounding everywhere we look
Complicit inaction leaves us shook
Another consideration:
Do I need to write a book?
Intentional with the pause, I dwell in hope
Great potential warms the pools of this trope
Elements of a bridge assembling soon
Working covertly, under the light of the moon
The wisest action now:
Listen...for the tune of the rune.
