Some days it’s art, some days it’s just trying to figure out the reason to do the art. To stay alive is usually motivating enough. But to be able to sleep, that’s what gets the words pouring out of me. I stare at closed lips waiting for something other than the clicking of spit. I wish so hard for more more more. But words don’t come. Not even close. And so in the silence I grasp at any man willing to slip me a few sentences to get me through the day. It’s caused by a mixture of so many broken promises. The craving to want to be chosen, so I’ll chose him. I’ll choose him over and over again until I’m nothing but a memory. Or something like that. It does matter. I do see it. I’m not really sure what or how to change, so if the big hand would reach down from the heavens and push me toward the right direction, I’d be grateful for it.
Published by grumpygorman
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out... View more posts