Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to think too much.
If there's a limit to clever and decisive adjectives;
right now all there is is a searing desire to add another.
Sometimes I wonder how far my mind can go without exploding into literary nonsence.
Maybe it already has.
Who knows? Poetry has no limits---so they say. Often times I'm just sitting with a notebook in hand, chewing maniacally on my yellow machanical pencil and thinking---
Come on. There has to be a bigger word than hoppopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia.
Or staring at a slice of swiss cheese, wondering glumly if that's exactly what most of my pen-and-paper writing looks like in the real world.
It's just a little crave for perfection, that's all. Could be my mild Seasonal Affective Disorder. Or maybe it's just a lack of food. Sleep. Writing. But I can't seem to get the right story.
All of my words seem boring or repetetive---seems like I've got a little ways to go until I reach halfway to perfection.
But I do hope I get there soon---because here I am, waiting
waiting for the sun to peek out from behind the clouds
waiting to get a chance to bore my eyes into its brightness and complexity
until I go blind, blind enough to forget that my "I"s have to be capitol, blind with a desire for a pen and a paper, blind with the happiness that I've finally made the decision: rhinoceroses, not rhinoceri.
My only next step is to merely jot that down in the contamination of my memory before it dashes like lightning to place far, farther, and the farthest away.