Outlet

The record player crackles behind me. The house sleeps. I hear nothing but the music I have chosen. Late at night, I am alone, with my thoughts, and the music I have chosen. Late at night has never been so bright as with my fluorescent bulb. Late at night, safe and sound. Safe and sound. Late at night. My loved ones dream, but I sit, wakefully. Poised over a paper, a key board, a piano. Frozen in my own thoughts. But this image is mine alone for it only occurs when I'm alone. Frozen, waiting. Wishing my emotions away through art, writing, music. How can I make them disappear? How can I let them empty out into something beautiful. Can I? I wait patiently for that one moment of inspiration, my eureka, my light bulb. I can only think of the ordinary, nothing extra. I play the same songs, draw the same things, write what everyone else does. I can't seem to find my voice, my outlet. I want my sorrows, fears, and hopeless nights to become beauty, but I can only produce rambles, scribbles, a cacophony of keys. My emotions create what they are, ugliness. Why should I expect something different?