this (liking it, knowing you/i can go back to it; feeling groovy cruising the Likes of familiar YouTube, yes, my logged-in palace—does it cost the earth? Poverty? I wonder hard; I wonder if my wonder is professional; I keep being scared; more feeling to sort, fever to sort, to overcome, to digest, and change—yield to change alone, the lover a couple clicks away;
this ^ is more than just lists
🐆 choosing emojis makes you happy; you’re home in the grid others choose from too
so he’s messing with his greatness again, trying to find the right knob, dial up the right thing; make externally the thing he feels, perfect listening and perception; he will bitterly learn the limits again—the mother and father are distant; no real adult can save you, we are made for somewhere else, not just waiting for the holidays, not just a long line of sad whispers
Bringing great work to the world is your job, whether you or someone else created it.
How to Have a Career: Advice to Young Writers | Work in Progress
Work. Be relentless. All over the world, people are working harder than you. Don't go to events; go to the receptions…
Do You Take Yourself Seriously?
When is the last time you had an opinion but didn’t share it with anyone because you didn’t think anyone would care…
the hunger for wholeness is a religious quest requiring remembering everything and honoring those who helped and help and will help you; ah, don’t drag someone through your confusion—yet, do your art and push send because you must move onto the next one: only the screaming shadow villain says you’re doing everything you shouldn’t do, and you keep doing what you should do everything but ~ yes, i follow the opposite, i lose myself in the work of making something i zoom out to trust; this isn’t divine, it’s ordinary, it’s breath, but it need not be more; i am praying hard, trying to learn, to forgive myself, to “succeed” and enjoy the flaming thrill of writing and sending it, even if it’s crap, unorganized garbage, pushing out another baby rapid fire then excusing it not being something else; luckily no one asks face to face about my work; is that lucky? Is this obscurity glorious? All my teachers, mentors (ah, how strong the hate; why? Oh, the whole past could be reversed in this instant; yes, change, word by word—I apprentice myself ~ but who’d give valid criticism? This is a flood; who’d criticize the ocean? They’re, you’re, just mediocre adults; I put in posts what I’d never say to your face; writing is the underworld. I live here mostly.
The whole thing is in here, enough to start a conversation, enough but not enough ~ pain; hunger; hope—all is simplicity now, felicity; set it to music, make it real, make it pay the rent, make it solve the problem, cure the fear; this is a divination not a story; this is another preacher unfortunately, another poet online. Online killed uniqueness; you just need so much patience, and to hate the thing you love; yes, you must hate that you will alienate everyone by being sickeningly good at the profession of being a smart bitch.