I wear to many layers and when I write, I slowly pull them off as my sweat stings my flushed cheeks and as my inner bunny says “fo don’t write that, people will know you desire carrots and long pieces of chalk,” but I ignore the little bunny. Most people think the little bunny will help them get ahead, ( and they are right) but the little bunny won’t help you make art. You have to do that inside a cardboard box, alone. You can’t let anyone in until your done gnashing your teeth and screaming, “fuck.” Then the art becomes alive just like the bunny. And the bunny grows to accept it. And you, the hand, learn to do it. Pretty soon that’s all you can do, and your locked in your cardboard box gnashing and breaking bones until you no longer desire to get out, until you decide to just fall asleep. That’s when the words and pictures begin. That’s where your friends and family visit you, that is when it hurts the most to be friends with a bunny. And yes to make art, you have to hurt, on purpose, all the time, you have to carry the galaxies inside, and wear enough layers that no one notices your insides are exploding. You have to say “Bunny, it hurts to love you and make art, but I’ll do it. I will. Want to spilt a carrot?” Of course reading the classics is a good start, but you need to tame the bunny before the bunny will guide you in and out of the cardboard box, or like most people say, the bunny hole. I find that term to be offensive though, and so does the bunny, so never say it to the bunny or else, you will never be his friend and he will never lead you to the cardboard box. And you need the bunny to find a box. And a box to do your art in
Annieepoetry 