I long to be possessed by a famous writer so that in the deluge of emotion I might spill it out in the form of a poetic masterpiece.
Come on literati, let your soul take hold of my wretched, immovable body, beckon my hand to write, scribble notes and sketch with words
Take control of my mind and electrify my somnolent imagining, wallowing in soliloquy despite incessant urging
Obliterate all practicality and color me with quixotic pastels totally eradicating any concept of reality
Teach me the bohemian ideology so I may travel and not stay idle in my vapid nonchalance.
To see constellations and not cash. To feel gratification and not notoriety
In fact, let me rid my ego if you wish to do it you may
Now that you are my brain plague me with depression and control my impulses not so I might reach for absinthe bottle strong and burning, my guts jerking, churning if it churns my guts first.
Holy smokes, cigarette you come from though obscure reality and lose me in typhoons of ecstasy my lungs corroding, sanity eroding while my story starts to take form and grows
If you must shower me with your genius, your unique propinquity for words, infect me with your madness, your abnormalities, may your deviance plague me, forget normalcy, it’s a giant phony. I pray to you holy bard plague me with misery for the best stories come from those who see things differently.
Alas I feel I would perish without a penny as you did before me. You’ve m ade me too deep for monetary matters. Perhaps this is what it truly means to be an artist. The starving creative rich in the heart but poor as a piss pot. Fame you withdrew from and neglected when I would’ve wholly accepted it. Fame that is your downfall, despised eyes that bore on down and pried, tongues that wagged in rumour, in anticipation. “when will you come out?”
No, get out of me. Find the exit door and leave me alone. Such the miserable life I’m not cut out for. I’d like to return to my peaceful bore.