Frustration really boils creativity down to a few choice words, it seems.
The desk made of wood
and the books made of wood
that talk about trees.
Or the shelves made of wood
doors made of wood
buildings made of wood
windows made of sand
so that we can look at trees.
Isolated problems in isolated places.
Fighting, fucking, lying, love
Hell, at least I'm not in the woods.
We're all just happy children
running through the fields of play
scribbling our realities on a thin piece of paper.
Brought into this world from the trees, we made greed.
Pencil in hand
draw a sun with the purple-blue sky,
make it pretty with some tinted mountains.
Words mean nothing when pictures run the world.
Lightly draw a road
an unavoidable highway,
cascading past the horizon line, infinite.
The only road to go on is the only road drawn.
Into the blinding light of the unsurpassable sun
and then we find ourselves regretting our decisions to draw
We want a dirt road
Or no road at all.
So crumble the paper into a ball
throw it in the trash
and start again.