The mind can be quite dangerous.

Jesus Christ.

Where is my motivation.

I enter this text box once a day, but it takes me days to actually write. I've drawn blanks, things have been blacker than black, and my inspiration has been nothing but a dry well. As you can see here, the only thing I can really actually talk about is that fact that I've lost what to actually say.

Things seem a little disoriented. I am seeing things upside down, topsy-turvy, and juxtaposed. Colors are much less than vibrant and things are very lackluster. I find myself fingering the neck of my guitar, strumming useless patterns and creating a musicians nightmare: noise. My life has become swarmed into a Picasso piece.

My fight to cut ties with home have failed. They are selfish, cloudy, and ruthless thoughts. To destroy everything that has made me, me, so I can carry on to a new stage in life is anything but selfless. Events have been cross-collateralized and you can find me doing balancing acts from telephone poll to telephone poll. The only problem is, I don't have anything to counteract the forces of gravity.

You can find me coloring in the lines with much happier shades, trying to brighten up the charcoal grays and blacks that have inhabited spaces in my daily life. I'll switch things up and change my hair, my clothes, my beard, trying to find ways to affect the inside. One outcome affecting the other. Changing the package to somehow affect the contents.

This has proved to be a losers game. Setting your bars low just so you can succeed; not questioning everything; accepting the things as they come. I find my lips quivering and my teeth chattering/grinding, and it's as though someone is always watching over me, but in a not-so-guardian-angel way.

I swallow those hard, chalky pills known as truth with a grin. I repeat the same things, go over the same problems, initiate the same solutions to keep myself in check. I write poems to keep myself interesting, to disclose every piece, every part, every deep dark secret, and let it breathe. I purposely build walls of paper, showing that I'm willing for opposition while still trying to keep you out.

You plague my thoughts. You stain my words. You have made me crippled and declined to love. You are everything I wanted, except for this tart and potent aftertaste. What I taste is acidic, and my heart burns of lust and desire. It is all because I let you in. I let you have such a huge part of me; I let you do with it as you will; I trusted you with my whole being, most importantly, the most fragile part of me. You were careless with my heart.

How strange it is to let such events control every facet, every single aspect of a life. Be it at the gas pump, a night with friends, while I attempt to create my songs, while on the road, you seem to want an explosion, a fight, a failure, a turn into the creek. You are so far yet you remain so close, too close.

I must delete you. erase you. destroy you. rip you from my thoughts.

I seem to turn back to that empty, imaginative canvas once again. The first thing I'll paint is our life. You can see smiles on two young peoples faces. You will find a house, a yard, and animals running about. You see a bright future clad with sunshine and laughter. For an element of surprise, I'll change up my style. You'll see me mixing all of the colors together to create a dark midnight black, with hints off swampy greens and placid purples. I will then throw the previous canvas off, and replace it with a clean one. All I will paint on it is one straight line. It represents the path between two imaginary points. One being the beginning,

One being the end.