Idiot Savant--w/ emphasis on idiot
writer’s block/do i have to be sad to make this work?
arrested in some static state
just locked up
in a happy prison
surrounded by these pretty girls
these downtown girls
who know me (most of me) more than any one before
more than katherine ever did or could
and treat me like some prince of words
some jester, at least,
and that, for now, is fine with me/
if only i could put this pencil to paper
if only i could create something and own it entirely
not some banal song
some trite poem
some character who is really some thinly veiled version of me
with longer hair or an english accent or a broken home/
and this is my conundrum
devoid of freshness itself
like ryan
like rilke
like many greater men before me
braver men
more talented men
so how could i even compare?
with calloused fingertips that always start on G
and schoolboy poetry
like
” i love her so much that i fear one heart may not be enough”
and with a wallet so thin
and confidence so fleeting
relying on these tiny bursts
these explosions between midnight and five
a pensive volcano
spending the days sleeping in
then breaking my back to have a roof
playing along
enjoying the fact that they have no idea of this dangerous existentialist
dreaming away beside them/
do you know what you’re missing?
you’re lucky, i guess, if you do
me, i’m mostly happy here
in my galaxy
watching over you and taking notes
just trying to make some sense
but trapped today
not so sure
do i have to be sad to make this work?
Bad news: yes, you have to be sad to make it work.
