It is okay to not do the thing
you want to do for days
at a stretch,
wonder while staring
at the tangerine paint on your pretty feet,
of words
you want to vomit,
of thoughts
you want to
share
with the world that pretends to listen
to care, to love, to smile, to give a fuck.
It is okay to not do the thing
and spend days reading
dirty old notes
of a dirty old man
and not struggle
to breathe through
the serpentine locks of
melancholy
and just be there for a while longer
still, unloving, undying.
It is okay to think of it as a lie,
a joke maybe
just maybe
this could be unreal
But what is the thing
you want it to be.
what is the thing you dearly seek.
a peaceful sleep,
an honest talk,
some mad people to share the madness.
There is always a reason, love
there is always a reason which makes
writers crazy
and when there is none,
they slyly create one.
______
