stream of artful coincidence

Did it stutter? I can’t seem to write anymore but I know I need to put words across the screen to fulfil something. There’s something brewing, something big. I have something to say. Something to tell you all. I have to say it but I don’t know how. Words. Music. Poetry. Art. Don’t get me started on abstract shit that nobody considers to be art, but the mindless ramblings of a self-destroying depressant entering the body for a third time, third time lucky, third times the charm- don’t wake me up yet – im still having a nice dream about all the possibilities of what could go wrong – somehow I feel safer here in the closets of my mind, the walls bleed a strange dye that stains my eyes with woe. Oh no, don’t take that bucket of blood away from me, im still trying to figure out how I can use this pain. This tangible side a of a not-so-broken record. Shit – it hasn’t even been played yet, but one day it will be old, gathering dust in the attic of self-submission, the roof will fall in and crush the not-yet-rubble of the not-yet fire that will burn from the corners of my sheets, where I can wake up and draw the line in the sand, and tell you that sleep no matter concerns me – dreams no longer haunt me – that I can sing a new song. But first I have to figure out how to mould this pain into something new, something clean, something dirty, something – I mean – what I am trying to say – I mean what I said – I mean what I mean, but that never mattered to mr clean, who doesn’t want us to explore the wilderness, to hear a tree fall, but not make a sound. When will art be considered me not making a sound? When will I consider art to be just a bunch of flowers, moulded from a tree, moulded from my dreams that I still seek to escape from.