#CreativeInsomniac

Written on 4:54AM

On Wednesday, 

March 4th, 2015
I despise the fact that I’m writing at this moment, not so much the writing aspect of it, however it’s the fact that all my greatest prose projects appear in my head close to the dawn. On occasion, I have woken from a deep slumber in the wee hours of the morning to extract creative juices from my skull. At times I feel stronger than those around me sometimes even arrogant that my ideas can stem beyond my control, beyond sleep- yet it seems I am one of many. How many of you reading this now have felt a dying desire for rest but become plagued with mindless thoughts as your pillow hits your head? I’d like to believe this is the mark of a special type of thinker- a creator. Musicians, writers, and artists alike are understood to be best at their most eccentric, often referred to as a little crazy but ‘not in a bad way’. It seems to me that sometimes insomnia often comes as part of the deal- a blessing and a curse. 

If I recall correctly, half of my writing last month was written on the cusp of exhaustion, and my newest song-writing attempt was hashed out from midnight till five in one long-night’s work. This ability (or curse) to loose sight of your most basic needs for the sake of creativity is an heirloom inherited for the purpose of breaking expectations, setting new goals, and conquering your imagination – passed down by the awe spoken masters of the old world. Dalí confessed his greatest works came to him in the drowned of the morning, staving off sleep for better brush strokes. Though it can hardly be said that insomnia is the mark of a genius, it’s what you will choose to make of it when you stay up that has the final say . As a 23 year old male who loves writing before anyone’s woken up- my solution to other creative insomniacs is to get your thoughts out on paper or canvas, then see if the bed feels softer. For some, however I think we’ll just keep writing. 

~TheLionWriter 

 

Clock Hands – #LyricOfTheDay

Lyrics for Just Bustadelic
There’s not enough time in these

Clock Hands, for these moments past

Or is it my head, that just ticks too fast 

There’s not enough time in this

Watch band, fashion always sells 

And if you’re late, they can always tell

Like sand you’re slipping through my fingers 

Pushing seconds nearer, leaving now behind

So take from whatever tree you see

I don’t even really believe that all of us can be bad

There’s not enough time in these clock hands, for the days ahead 

Because by then, we won’t count with them

There’s not enough time in the present, to erase the past

Cus sure enough clock hands make it last

But soon enough sand will trickle down gears wound tight signing on count

 

Lyrics- A Quick Little F@!k You On Popular Culture and Politics

Conservation’s overrated 

Popular culture is jaded 

Instigate your changes, baby

All the excuses we give just feel

Yeah feel, like this world is going nowhere

Complicated jargon lately

Politics and nice cars, maybe?

In the end it all seems shady

Voting in their booths to say they feel

Yeah feel, like this world is going nowhere 

 

 

#TimeWaster

My seconds graze

the clock hands’ shade

A mind’s race goes for daze

Suns rays erase a watch’s stain

Even on the glare’s long days,

Our shadowplay moves yesterdays

To powdered futures, bronzed and glazed

A moment grows yet remains the same

 

Wonder-Taken

Wonder-taken on broken breath

bracing for a white compact

the air was racing cold and cool

I felt the frame shake

the noise was mute,

my tanks on empty my seatbelt’s there

toes are crossed

my hairs are reared

the mirror’s fine

the taillights too,

I shove it and park

kick the brake and retort,

the smell of the airbags

escapes from my door,

The stranger I met

hugged me and swore,

thank god we’re okay

fuck, yeah we’re alive

My front light was smashed

but the ice looked so nice…

 

Before the Dawn

My favorite moments

lay close before the dawn,

sheepish hours of yesterday

clinging to the lawns

stillness laughs triumphant

and casts the birdsongs off

purple-lighted murals

enchanted by the stars

cloaked in desperation

longing for moon’s pause

shrouded with light’s gauze

in ever-changing awe.

 

Just Bustadelic Lyrics- *(Plans)*

Behold! EVEN NEWER Lyrics from my psychedelic funk blues rock band, Just Bustadelic. This new song is an older tune we are juster starting to rehash and I decided it only fitting to not only post the new lyrics here but a link to a shoddy video recording demo of a song written by our guitarist, Bill all about THELIONWRITER!

ENJOY!

 *(PLANS)*

You’re tied, to this scene, you’re in

swimming, daydreams, crashing

sour-cherried, secrets, roll in

so keep, your motor, running

_

No More Plans,

Cus they never come to be

And in that moment can we Seize

Who you want to be… (x2)

_

So tired, you can barely swim

thrashin’, in fake, oceans

and clouded, stars, teleporting

to make sure, you’re still, floating

_

And the moss shakes

open leaves to breathe,

and the sun still,

sets to greet the sea

and the bird flies

only on belief,

That life is planned to be

 

Just Bustadelic Lyrics- The GRooVe

Behold! New Lyrics from my psychedelic funk blues rock band, Just Bustadelic. This new song has become our favorite so far and I decided it only fitting to not only post the lyrics here but a link to a shoddy video recording demo of what is coming to be known as The GRooVe 

Just Bustadelic Lyrics- The GRooVe

–

Give me the answer please

We need a way around

this dream, and every sound

Is just a lie, you know!

Heard it on the news

we are the glue, in this world, and the next one too,

and the next one two

–

Well I’m afraid to lose myself my friend

and sometimes we may miss a step

but so did the best, and so will the rest

This isn’t life, This is a test…

—

Wake me, I sleep too much

Break me, a spark to touch

shows me, that I can love

my blood, can still run true

And I want it to,

get back to the groove

I can love too

And I should love to!

—

Tell me we can still groove,

Tell me that you groove too,

if you trip on your shoe

get back up and back to grooving (x4)

 

#sevenoclock

There are potholes in my floor

from all my constant pacing,

my pillows, all grown cold

from lack of me there sleeping

incense fills the air

and wavers like the evening

thoughts sputter to my page

to whisper lucid mute things

in ears that do not hear  for

morning work draws ever near…

and my pen begs me to stay there,

seven’ o’clock and my head is all but clear

WRITTEN ON 6:25AM, 2/13/14

 

#Writer’sBlock

I wait for the moments

to collide on the page

sitting in wonder

fists balled in rage,

Will words come easy or freely this month?

_

No,

they hide in my skull uneasy to jump,

to fall on my pens,

and become permanent,

and the heat from my stories

leaves writing singed,

melting mind’s quarries

and imagination.

_

Yet perhaps its the weight

of outdoing the late

or that passion deflates

when you have a full plate.

_

But when will my friction

ease writing addictions?

_

My fickle brains moves

but my pen doesn’t listen,

though my only intention

is remember my mission

to master all fiction

create new depictions,

feasibly make predictions,

to break this affliction

shatter constrictions

_

End this pitiless self-infliction!

_

With penniless thoughts that maybe show wisdom,

they appear from within and hope hands will listen

to christen

the given

driven vision

envisioned

that is missing

or imprisoned,

not yet written

but already positioned

_

To kill this writer’s torture…

…and forge a new author