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.
Login or register to post a comment.