Writers, artists, and performers
Are constantly sitting around with pens dancing between their fingers,
Still waiting on their Bohemian revolutions;
Waiting for the days where they can stop searching for
Truth,
Beauty,
Freedom,
And Love,
Because they have already found them,
Waiting for the days where they can stop
Romanticizing and beautifying
The things that tear us apart
Because that’s all they have even found in life,
And waiting for the days where they can stop
Doodling hearts in the margins of their papers,
Trying to find something in their pool of ink
To pull any dying inspiration from.