Aristarch vs. Artist

Writing down those things I know to be true in my heart are getting stuck somewhere between my brain and my fingers.

Feeling those things I know to be true in my heart are feeling kind of false.

Understanding those things I know to be true in my heart are feeling kind of useless to anyone who doesn't live in my brain.

I guess my brain doesn't trust my heart.

This is bad for a body.


Langston said it best.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Or does it explode?