I desperately want to paint.
furiously desperate, i find no words.
no muse. no blood.
to paint the emotions that have me bound tightly.
I sit there and realize the frustrations many call
writers block. i am. never. blocked.
I just spill, into the crevices that passionately has nipples hardened.
a lack of braininess. just a furious painting of emotions. it never is mine to own.
never has been. It does not find me seductive enough to fall for.
a tumbling for my sweet nothings. no. it is not mine.
i call it my 3rd person plural. (verbs be damned.)
i refer to its fury as my painting. it is a part of us.
just an elusive persona that comes and go.
we cannot stake a claim on it. no. not my 3rd person plural.
if i were to paint, and stake a claim, then you would see
that even i experience the artist’s bloc. LMFAO!