Channeling Lady Gaga
“Just dance,” sang the queen (sorry Beyoncé) in — what seems like forever ago — 2008. “Just write” says the unsteady king (me) in 2017, crown wobbling beneath the weight of self-imposed expectations. The throne may not be iron, but respect it.
The words rush as through a swollen Mississippi, but I lack the skill to gather them and mold something new and beautiful, beyond this jaded millennial semi-bliss haze. To make something of this tired clay, but never to know unless one tries. To be bold, to risk failure, utter and complete? Final? World with an end?
I do not think I have the courage, the outrage, the pouring out of gall red and infinite, to tempt, to taunt, to bring down upon myself the wrath of countless gods.
We are but lumps of mud, molded into Titans’ forms / by gods we never knew.
Destructive Anachronism 