And if these words are tied to my name, then so be it
I’ll live another day in their bold-faced print
In fear that I’ll never replicate their explicit beauty again
As the palm trees cast pencil thin shadows
The words always find me when I don’t have a pencil in my hand
Fingers wrapped around the mic with not a thing to say
I’m the downfall of my creativity
Turn the fucking spotlight off
Standing on stage with one leg up on a stool rung
Head bowed, eyes floor-ward, wearing it
Looking like I just lost a bar fight
Cue the montage music
Redact nothing from this being’s history
I think the sunset is waiting for me
Andrew/Borger/Writes 
“Who has not sat before his own heart’s curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.” – Rainer Maria Rilke
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