Writeia

Slow Mornings, Fast Days What pleasures I derive from a slow morning, Drive me through the rest of the day. Though I cannot help but Stress the tough work that is not of art— Matters of economy always guilt the heart. Can I leave it behind? Will you give the okay? Your okay? Is that even possible anyway? I chained myself, so you could save the day. Tell me, oh fellow sinners of mine, What do you do that is so divine? Can I summon God, or will the devil appear instead? They chatter all day long—or is it just in my head? What keeps them at bay? What stirs up there? Is it hope I dream of—or merely live in fear? Ah, the life of a working human! You must be down for anything—there’s always a plan. In constant action, forever and always, And yet you wonder Where your life went— Dying, you worry and ponder. Alas, know now: Childlike is the way to be. Regretfully, with the dying of the light, You truly start to see.

  A Day to Live What would I do with a day to live? Would I make amends, or give away dying confessions? Would I drown in booze, before I forever snooze? With a day to live, what would I even choose — the loving embrace of friends and family, or a day spent lamenting this tragedy? Would I dull out my consciousness, or be consumed with all seriousness? With a day to live, what new lines would I write? What new play would I cast? What words would be my last? Drowning in memories of the past, would there be tears of sorrow? Would I even care with no tomorrow? If I had a day to live, maybe I'd search for a day to borrow.

Everything I heard,  I internalized. Every story I saw, I internalized. Every sorrow I read, I internalized. Every death I knew, I internalized. Every pain that grew, I internalized. Every lie that I spew, I internalized. Every tie that I called, I internalized. Every day that I stalled, I internalized. Everything that I hid, I internalized. Too soon—or too late—now? My faults, I’ve realized. (Painting : "The Absinthe Drinker" by Pablo Picasso (Blue Period))