my paintbrushes are brittle and my sketchbook sits stiffly in my second drawer
i've avoided my composition notebook and my keys and blank computer screens at 2:35 am
because of the emotional charge that each of those entail
not because of writers block
and not because of intro to writing due dates
but because of nostalgia
because i'm growing older and my heroes are becoming more human right in front of me
because my soul still hasn't said goodbye even though my mouth did four months ago
because art tells tells us too much about the five year old we wish we could be again
and writing begs us to feel
and sometimes,
sometimes that's the last thing we're willing to do
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