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,
always.
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,
for
complete understanding
Yet, I don’t want my world
to be completely
disrupted
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.
