260: (dead)

how many people here are dead?
it’s an honest question. dead inside.
yeah yeah you’re all alive, you got a heartbeat,
but in mid day on the weekend
you’re staring out at the sunshine
from your dark, listless bedroom,
staring at computer screens or paper pads
waiting for inspiration to strike.
where is it? where is it?
you’re trawling the depths of your heart,
ripping your emotional muscle fibers,
growing the thick, dense muscle
needed to support your weighty state of mind.
how many of you are dead?
head lolling along your neckline,
twisting verbiage in your mind,
waiting for that next big thing?
you read that stephen king book.
you know writing takes practice,
you know things take practice,
and months later in your dead-end job
your corner store groceries
your pale wispy skin
your permanent scowl
somehow you realize with pained regret
that you don’t want the practice,
you want the end result.
you want the writing botox.
the injection is clean and quick.
you get what you want: a facade of success,
the flat painted to look like rome
when you’re in a black box theater in boise, idaho.

you’re all dead. we’re all dead.
we’re searching for life and we’re already dead.

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