Why do I feel like artists can be like Christians?
Ambiguous to sound profound People getting wound up and let down Making people learn phrases to praise things that don’t make sense
Why are people excited and winded?
They’re climbing stairs where no one knows where they’re going Hearts racing and energy escaping They are feeling wired but tired like one drink too many
Why are people so restless? What if Jesus and art made sense? Would we rest?
trying to write something good trying to light that spark that special sauce I think to myself that this must have been the feeling they had that caused the Big Mac to be created I’ve waited and waited to write for too long Not realizing the sparks been hiding under my fingers
15 or more tries to write this prompt Two survived this war that has been going on Between me and my inner critic I get up and see a sweater I wanna wear I put it on My housemates are still in the bathroom And so I’m dancing around my room Is this poetry? Maybe it was before I called it that.
Well maybe everything can be Even when we’re lazy, as long as we notice
“He’s right there!” He yelled turning his head back and forth. “Where?!” I shouted. I was always pissed at him. Always angry. If my love for him was a scale, the fact that he was my brother was the only small stone keeping any feeling for him alive in my heart. My brother was always paranoid. We would be walking to the McDonald’s a mile from our house and he would look behind himself like a million times. When it got bad he would shout, “There he is! He’s coming, he’s coming!” “Shut up! Just shut up already,” I would yell back at him, hoping to make this annoying show that he put on for attention stop. At least, that’s what I thought it was. I thought it was just a show. My brother has now been missing for 56 days. I’ve counted everyday since he’s been gone. Everyday since, I’ve hated myself.
