They Can’t Get You If You Never Stop Screaming

You think I’m a creative person
Like creation, the need to create is what drives me
Like there’s a gnome on my knuckles
Kicking each finger to drive another letter into the world
In order, sensibly, afoiainuviaeljmvkmsfbwa;trgn like that

It’s a carrot-and-stick thing
But they beat me with the carrot
And shove the stick down my throat
I’m not running to the mountaintop
I’m running from the valleys
Verbal volleys sally forth solemnly
In pinstripe war-chariots
Clawing at the inside of my eardrums

You think I make to make
But I make so I won’t break
Won’t feel my feeble legs begin to shake
Won’t lie awake pissing and reminiscing all the things I might be missing
Abusing my inner child for every dumb mistake he makes

I’m on fire
The last inch of candle screaming at the darkness
Throat parched from eating too much parchment
The broken little finger of a former master marksman
The whittled bits of shaving cast away from grandpa’s carving
Insensitive comments from My Favorite Martian
Goldfish crackers flopping dryly on the kitchen floor

I write because it’s the only thing that keeps me insane
And I’ve seen what sanity does to the world
Turning dreams to clouds
And silencing the badgers
I want to bite the heads off paragraphs
And floss the popcorn shards of commas from my teeth

You think there’s joy in this?
Comfort as each new idea rends the mind canal
Before it’s healed from the last?
Painters want to see the canvas bleed
Composers to hear the instruments scream
Writers to feel the page succumb to blunt beating of keystrokes

It’s biting down on a lightbulb
A parasitic worm in the bladder
It’s agony, it’s hell
It’s the worst thing in the world
And it’s the only thing
The only thing
The only thing
Worth doing.

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