Flogging myself with negative thoughts.
Have you ever awoken from a deep sleep and come to the conclusion you’re not treating yourself with enough respect?
Sometimes when I was a kid and played doctor I’d pray I was the receptionist and didn’t have to perform any of the heavy breathing.
Lagging behind because I will not permit the pit crew to change my tires or perform any of the other routine maintenance my racecar may require.
When it comes to fools, I’m the biggest fool of them all, and I don’t need a tape measure to make good on this claim.
All you have to do is look into my eyes to soon realize nobody is home and that there hasn’t been for decades.
I listen back to my poetry and believe that it’s good, but where exactly does that get me. Is it possible to trade in some of these words for a ham sandwich and nice refreshing lemonade?
I understand when you’re an artist, worrying about material things is beyond ridiculous, but I’m starting to think I may have reached a point where taking care of me is more important than the next art installation.
I don’t doubt for a second that hard work, dedication and sacrifice are essential factors when doing your best to make something happen, but what if nothing is happening and all you seem to be doing is trying the patience of those who also happen to be supporting you.
Standing on the side of the highway trying to flag down a ride.
It’s pitch dark, and I know my chances of getting picked up are slim to none.
It may be time to take off the kid gloves and experience some hard knocks before I am folded up and put back into a trunk like some ventriloquist’s dummy.