sophomore slump
sophomore slump
A knock on the door
brought a lover
with a pretty grin,
she walked in,
“Where have you been?”
40 restless days
matched by sleepless nights,
rolling a dream up a hill
to face frustration, self-doubt, and indecision,
at the top,
when I let Pinocchio become a real boy
he crashed, burnt up, and died with indifference.
“Wow,
that fucking sucked.”
The idea came to mind,
but like a thief
elimination stole the seedling
before it could germinate,
the next thought
being mistaken for a weed
and the next season
when it was time
to give a garden another look,
I picked up that pen,
started another book,
but became afraid of the paper
as if a blank page
was what I should fear.
Her taste in music
was much the same as mine.
“The Killers.”
“I know.”
“But since the 2nd album,” she said.
“They haven’t been the same.”
It wasn’t her,
nor is it probably you,
but the difference between
a hater and a critic
is that the former
still masturbates his own ego,
while the critic
at least learned to write,
but both
live in the similarity of mom’s basement;
holding onto purgatory in fear
of building their own dreams.
It’s kinda like the old dork
at the poetry reading,
a binder and a fedora,
in front of the mic
he rhymes about rhythm
without knowing that his attempt
at creativity is consumed by
a passive aggressive try at objectivity
falsified by the lie
of writing outside of his own voice.
“That usually happens,” I said.
“Why?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah,” she smiled.
Making something from nothing
is like being god for a day.
If you know your theology
the only one
to give that an honest shot
got kicked off the playground
for saying,
“It’s better to reign in hell,
than to serve in heaven.”
I pray that it’s not a contradiction
to continue in this tradition
because selfish art
is the best art,
truth mirrored in the ability
to write about reality
in a way for others to say,
“Damn,
you said exactly
what I wanted to say.”
“You ok?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You got other things you’re gonna do?”
“Sure do.”