4i want to take this emptiness,
this passivity,
and make it into something beautiful.
dig the rage from its burial chamber
deep within my bones,
reach down my own sore throat,
pull the terror out,
and dump them in my notebook.
to build whole worlds of my hopelessness,
find inspiration in the center of my sorrow.
use words to unlock my self-imposed cage,
(and for god's sake yes i know it's fucking cliche,)
to do something, anything,
to counteract this uselessness.
.
.
.
instead, i fill the long hours with
tv shows i don't care about, library books,
running on the boardwalk and
moving cross-country
as though it makes a difference -
as though the physical distance
could ever be enough.
an. fighting writer's block. depression and shit.