You see, the words come, come, come.
Tomorrow they’ll run, run, run.
And the next day I’ll forget, think about the things I thought about and how they don’t mean shit.
Still I note them down, aggressively and desperately while anger spurs and splashes the ink everywhere. I bold here, overwrite there, scratches everywhere and words showing temper.
Still the next day of those next days I get back and look and reflect on what I was trying to say.
An artist is most beautiful on his worst day.