Wrestle the Devil

i keep waiting for something awesome to happen to me.
i'm lazy!
i need to pull my head out of my ass.
i'd rather dream my life away then work too hard.
i love to play!
i'd like to do that everyday, but i get bored.
i've forgotten i'm capable enough to learn new things.
my downward spiral into inactivity has hit rock bottom.
i have to dust off my inner sun and let it shine!

i can write so why can't i sing too?
i can walk so now it's time to run.
i can talk so now i should say something important.
i can love so now i should show someone.
i have all these skill being unused.
i'm taking a step back so i can move forward.

i'm done waiting for the world to take notice.
my attitude is shifting back into alignment.
i'm not going to worry about tomorrow.
today is the only day that matters.
every moment requires my attention.
i'll wrestle the devil out of these details
and i will conquer my inner demons!

Glory, Money and Applause

i am a fake.
i copy what's around me.
i take in what i hear and throw it up butchered into what i believe to be my own thoughts.
as i listen to a song, i take a line or an idea to twist into my own verse.
i am a sponge.

i want to believe i'm a creative force undiscovered in the literay world.
a diamond waiting to be cut and polished to shine;
then put out for display with a huge markup.
my value assessed.
my artistic prowess confirmed.
but i just reiterate what i myself am unable to create.

i want the glory.
i want the money.
i want the critical beatings and the audience applause.
yet i will never see anything but lawsuits, court rooms, and heads shaking in disappointment.

i made up every word.
true or not, i heard it in my thoughts.
i grabbed it and wrestled it onto paper.
i pat myself on the back for my accomplishment.
but then i read somewhere that what i have has already been done.

i'm in deep into my mental disorder.
i saw him go from poor me to hearts dancing in his eyes.
love sweet love offers me a rest from the daily frustrations of my own life.
but he tells me he's not real.
another figment of my imagination floats away.

i am a fake.
i will never be published, but i will be heard someday.
maybe all this will end up in the dumpster when i die.
after i'm gone there's no guarentee these words will live on.
i am a sponge.

Little Scraps of Paper

i document my feelings on little scraps of paper.
i have them tucked away in dark secret spaces,
wondering if any words can truly paint
an accurate picture of who i am.

the little scraps of paper are turning yellow.
the lead is fading and the ink smearing.
some of it is so light i can't read it anymore.
when the words disappear,
does part of me vanish with them?

i have written my life down.
sentences strung together haphazardly.
misspellings abound and i don't recall some of the emotions at all.
will anyone care that i felt so small?

i've built a papier-mache empire.
i surround myself with pens and post-it notes,
hoping to capture the elusiveness of my soul.
my pre-occupation with me prevents me
from forming meaningful attachements.
at least that's what a therapist told me long ago.

i spend hours speaking to the dead inside my head.
i'm trying to remember a forgotten friend.
i stand in the kitchen hoping to expose a fear,
but i end up eating chocolate
and writing on a napkin how i hope i choke.

i realize my little scraps of paper won't save me.
but i can't stop myself from adding to them.
when i die i want to be buried in a suit
made out of these little scraps of papers.
then i can review them with saint peter
as he decides if my immortal soul belongs in either heaven or hell.