if you wanted to inspire
cataclysmic creation, the kind of which i know
i'm capable, you should've stuck it out
a little longer, let the love well up a little louder,
get a bit bigger & brighter before you
broke all the borders &
let it all loose.
the love was half-baked,
all creamy & goopy & not fully-formed,
not yet, then, now, ever.
premature evaporation:
the mortal enemy of all
angsty adolescent artists.
now there's nothing good to write or
paint or sing, just a flop & a mess
covering everything.
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