creativity down.

a million fireflies choking on atmosphere.

I have no comprehension of words right now,
just the use of them - though ill advised.
I wouldn't call it writers block, more..
endless listlessness?
like, I can't be bothered to come up with
anything particularly clever to say,
even when I desperately wish to.

canopies of snow, branched out into the sky.

if I were a painter, I'd probably slop
paint onto a canvas, without any real purpose.
kind of like that feeling where you feel anything
you do is going to be shit anyway, so maybe
shit can be a worthwhile angle for whatever
you're doing.
only not really.

awkwardly disappointed, the pious man sighs.

meaningless scribbles of existence,
splattered all over everything.
if my IQ were higher, or even much, much
lower, I wonder if I'd be considered a
genius? probably not, but a thought is
a thought. we can throw pennies at them.

blah blah other stuff - goodnight.

ps

a smile of a thousand sunrises,
squeeze my hand ever so slightly.
I wish it was within my capabilities,
to write something worthwhile -
something worth your time.
to write, to draw, to create
something that even scratches the
surface of who you are.
to validate my existence in your life.

goodnight, goodnight.