New plan. Write a shitload of poems and see how many stick. I've got nothing on the line, so nothing good can come of nothing. Gotta do something. Gotta put myself on the line. Gotta string myself out, dance on the blades. No progress comes after one perfects nothing. I have to breed something, create what is from what was. The lead and tree fiber have to sing, cry, bleed. They have to tell the stories of joy, the dirges of torture, the swan song of a new beginning. I need to hone my craft by putting it out there, drop the ball. This pang to make others laugh, cry...I need to unleash the powers to resurrect and to end life...but I can't destroy what I can't touch. And I won't reap what isn't sown.
Very frantic.
Think of a ugly pile of clay, moulded into the most perfect and most beatiful sculpture with no flaws.
Trial and error, it's the only way to perfection.
Think of a ugly pile of clay, moulded into the most perfect and most beatiful sculpture with no flaws.
Trial and error, it's the only way to perfection.
