The Artistic Process

How long have I stared into this lightbulb?

It’s blinding white has faded and turned into a dull pink.

I know it’s still white, and my eyes are simply tiring from the brightness,

But that doesn’t change the lie I see.

Looking back down, I can still see pink hovering over my cursor.

The cursor blinks, laughing at my inability to put words on a page.

So I throw words down.


The meaning changes with them on the page;

They scramble about in a frantic search to find what I meant for them.

Eventually, they find their place and fall in line,

But not before being lost several times more.


I wish I could write something real,

Like how I’ve changed the title of this poem twice already.

Or how I can’t write anything before I rewrite again and again in my head.

Or how the thoughts in my head buzz around,

And how I’m frantically trying to catch them before I decide they’re nothing special.

Or how I wrote four lines then stared at a cursor for half an hour dissociating.


I’m not unaware of where this poem will end up--

In a folder with many other abandoned ideas

That I thought were more interesting than math homework.

But maybe, maybe this will be different.


This poem is about: 


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