leave nothing for something nowhere

started writing something I have been feeling all week and midway through checked myself to be more honest. so instead of chopping the original poem I kept them both to show the switch up.

I should have said that I did, in fact, care.

that being an artist full-time, is a choice in this country
and by choice, I mean you only have yourself to take care of (which is not realistic)

that it isn’t artistically romantic, I write into the late hours of the night
it’s the only time it is quiet enough to do so 

that every day I wake up, an outline of myself
and colour in with whatever hue is required of me

that being proactive is not so much instinctual
as it is an act of survival

that I have to say no
to say yes

but what is it really?

inside the night, is the writer
inside the writer, is the outline
inside the outline, is the hue
inside the hue, is the instinct
inside the instinct, is the survival
inside the survival, is the no
inside the no, is the yes
inside the yes, is the choice
inside the choice, is the privilege 
inside the privilege, is the country
inside the country, is the mother
inside the mother, is a yawn
inside the yawn, is  the quiet
inside the quiet, is the truth
inside the truth, is the teeth
inside the teeth, is the spit
inside the spit, is the resentment
inside the resentment, is the anger
inside the anger, is the fear
inside the fear, is the love
inside the love, is the grief

and the grief sits like a rock in my belly

						                 rotting 

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