THE FUNDAMENTALS OF A REALIST

Dead

I only consider myself a poet or a writer when I inspired

But when I have a block
those qualities are not applicable

I feel like Im squeezing water out of a dry sponge
There was a time when I soaked in everything
Emotions , words, and memories

I imagine myself sitting in the front seat of his car across the street from my house

And we're just high
high and vibing to music

and we are quiet
Im looking at you and you looking out the window

And Im happy
Im full
You fed me purpose

But with one long glance out the window
and one hand held under the frame of the face
Im empty
Im confused

like aren't you satisfied
isn't this blissful

and then you turn your head towards me and my cup runneth over Im becoming sober
And I dont like that

I like the blur of the weed
and the slowing of the universe
the quality in this music
the stillness in this moment and Im alive

But when the heat cut off
and you're the only one up at 2 in the morning
And you're writing because you feel like you need to
you're dead

and I don't have anything else to say at that point
// e.b.