Art in America.

Can't afford to write a wake up poem

I can only write what these broke fingers will let me

Yesterday they were screaming
"Gina Marie you have lost yourself in the superficial standings of the others"

Quite often I wake up to sticky notes that my fingertips have left right in the middle of my chest

They're crying for black ink BIC pens with chewed tops smelling like Starbucks chewing gum.

Must I disappoint them everyday?
They too have felt the recession
My poor babies, I've left them unemployed. Banging on QWERTY keyboards, conforming to my comrades. There was a time our lives meant something you know?

Knocking on my temple are the ideas
Of what could be put on paper
my heart screaming red
My heart screaming white
My head screaming blue

My passion has sucked me dry
It has sucked me dry
My passion is the only thing that keeps me moist

I must battle with my fingertips

Don't write anything too good, you'll get addicted to the freedom. You'll get addicted to the honesty, you'll get addicted to the every happy chemical in your brain that flows from your toes to the longest curly hair standing on your afro covered head

You've got real work to do
Creativity doesn't get you far
It only gets you noticed and forgotten
It only gets you a finger snap, oooh and aahh .. and maybe a "preach"
Your creativity WILL get lost behind the cars, the dream house, shoes, and matching handbag

You fingertips will get lost behind that french manicure

They will scream "you're hiding your talent every time you put on that button up shirt!!" and you will silence them with nail polish, leaving them behind your flashy cell phone
They will scream "you used to use us to free yourself, now you only use us to hide yourself"

My fingertips are screaming "We Used To Write Poetry"

I can't afford to write a wake up poem.