yes, you


yes, you with your pencil hovering

over the paper

too scared to mar

a canvas; 

you with the can of cerulean spray paint,

poised to let colors scream

out all of your failings.


only, the sirens are howling,

the unwanted catcalls,

and Radioheads,

and no one is waiting

in the moonlight

at the end of your bed.


write, if it helps,

of the songs in your head,

of the color of red,

and why you do not understand

his voice when he told you "no".


once, Holden Caulfield gave up,

romanticism did him in, 

but it won't conquer you

not anymore, not once you engrave

riots on the concrete,

and feed lyrics into the typewriter,

and ink your calf with the words:



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