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.


The End

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