Last day of February

It is the last day of February
and I am lacking inspiration.

Months seem to go by
with no trace of productivity.
Oh well.
What should I do?
I know,
I should take on a new perspective.

A fresh one.

One free of insecurities and worries.

Let go of all of the thoughts
that don’t serve me anymore.
And there are many.

Isn’t terrible how people fall in love,
unreciprocated is the best kind.

Next month, I will be more productive.
Even if
the hoped for,
dreamed of,
aren’t reciprocated.


Have you ever noticed the way people can spot an artist
from a far.
Is it the dress?
or in the cool graceful manner
that they carry themselves,
articulate steps with a
I’m over this attitude

The coolest older couple just walked in
The woman is wearing a tie dye blouse and a long skirt
which is belted at the waist

The man is wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans
and Rayban sunglasses
Their outfits compliment each other

I could stare at ‘artists’ all day
the energy they give off
is fresh, and intelligent

Actually, this is where I get my inspiration,
the people that I look up to
the people who go to art galleries
the people who listen to jazz
the people who decorate their homes with art


I’m bored and internetless.

This is the perfect opportunity
to read all of the books I have been
meaning to read
and write
all of the poems
I have been meaning to write.

Maybe, I’ll just sit here quietly
and ponder.

Why must I constantly make
a sound?
The trees, just are,

Seen or not seen,
they will continue to radiate beauty
with no need of acceptance
or approval.

This is how I should go through life,
not needing approval.
Like a tall, beautiful tree,
deep in the forest.


For I am an artist
the little things in my mind

are incoherent

But I want to,
desire, yearn, long,
complete understanding

Yet, I don’t want my world
to be completely

or tainted by
the evil in the world

It is a sort of innocence, childlike
which I hold onto

It is not easily understood
by the matured crowd

My sense of language is not
understood by most.

My sense of creation
is not understood by myself

For what I create, is impulsive

One can draw squiggles on a popcorn drawing,
but they have to ‘make sense’

Who says.