My creative spurts come at odd times,
moments of premature poetic
if you will.
At the bar surrounded by drunks while
scrawling on cocktail napkins. On a
packed in a coach seat
surrounded by angry late passengers
dreaming of traveling in first
while i scribble on
the back of a barf-bag. In a public
restroom next to a man sitting on the
praying to God that
he'll never eat spicy food again,
while i etch graffiti on the stall
in front of me.
During sex as she screams out my name,
her name, and her lovers name, while i
my thoughts across her
lower back. It seems my creations and
moments of inspiration are disposable
of genius, captured by
a mental condom, or the uneasy droning’s
of a very sick man.