It's about being flexible with your art

I don't know how to be creative and happy

Those spaces don't exist in the same planes in my mind

I wish they did

I wish I could write beautiful poems about uplifting moments

About redemption and glory

But it just seems so much easier to wallow in self pity

To write the verbal equivalent of punching myself in the gut

And just relishing in that desperate feeling

I feel tempted to just smash my head on the keyboard

Just over and over

Until the keyboard is sticky with a little bit of blood

And on the screen, still half illuminated and half shards of glass

Is the word 'FUCK' over and over

And I could sell it in MoMA for a million dollars

I'd stand beside it on display behind bulletproof plexiglass

Beside the display of the painting of just white paint on white canvas

And the suprematist exhibit on the fourth floor

And say, see, art!