The Death of Ideas

Walking through an art museum, 

reading all the signs, 

try to trace back the thought process, 

paid parking's outta time, 

leave with paintings stuck inside my head,  

feeling finally more alive than dead, 

I have so many ideas,

Melpomene, Urania,

music and movies,

drawings and stories,

once I have paper my life won't be boring,

I'll write while the rest of my family's snoring,

and novel and poetry will just be pouring,

out of me,

but you see,

blank paper sucks all my ideas up,

tragedy, comedy, don't give a duck,

and once I am drained,

my mind and my brain,

tells me I need to write music!

The death of ideas,

is born on blank pages,

someone once said to

draw smiley faces,

so I won't be frightened,

to ruin more sketchbooks,

honestly it's paper,

if left blank it's wasted,

but my brain says everything

has to be perfect,

if it can't be optimal,

my soul'd be worthless,

so i'll keep on staring,

at spine-chilling cold-press,

with tons of ideas,

all tied up and restless.