For days now I have needed some outlet for what's in here (points to heart and head), this low, barely audible, almost subliminal droning and moaning I can feel agitatingly pulsing within.
Sitting at my piano and tickling the ivory keys left me unfulfilled. And, strumming my guitar made me wish I knew more chords since the song that needs to be released in me is in minor and flats [Unfortunately, I know mainly bright, happy major chords.] My fingers betray their duty.
I want to draw or paint, but cannot: Hesitation and a lack of inspiration cripples me. I think the only things that will result are sad stick figures, barren trees and homeless puppies.
I write and nothing makes sense and sounds just sooooooo melodramatic and depressing, I want to delete/cross-out/tear into little itty-bitty pieces/trash EVERYTHING.
I guess this is what people call a funk, eh?
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