the day is gray
and rainy
and my capacity sits at the precipice
of being awake and creative enough
to write and read and work and create
and all those good things,
and that of succumbing to the drear
of the clouds and rain and outside
drain my creativity
until my body floats like vapor
up to the sky
[[[to fly?]]]
everything
is getting grey
while the sun shines brighter and brighter
and i want to be able to see the sun
and the sky
and the stars
but nothing seems recognizable anymore
(and staring at the sun is real bad for your eyes)
~~~
humor
within
tragedy
is it a sign of good writing
or just deeper seeded depression
~~~
smaller poems
capturing
greater feelings
[isn’t/wasn’t that the aim all along?]
kipventures 