Once I finally decided to sit down and actually
write something
I was confused at the new list of
priorities
my life had established to far remove the pleasure of creativity and instead
convert
its entirety to a sort of 'dish-washing' chore,
but moreso it was that that idea itself was merely a fabrication,
because all I wanted was to sit inside and dream.
Why do we torment ourselves?
Where
I
Am over there
Perched neatly above
Flower Petals
and
Cherry Blossoms.
Because I want to be.
There isn't much to actually starting a journey
Seeing as how we're all one existential example
But are we supposed to love life along the way?
"All about the journey" but scared little girls
And bullied teens won't agree
The definitional phrasing seems to be independent
Of subject or context and more akin to
A sublimation of perception.
C'est La Vie.
So it goes.
Every student that walks by keeps
OgGlinG
At my pages as if I'm
(hiding something)
Or about to REVEAL who they are.
I wish they were more concerned about the
Sustainibility-y-y-y-y-y-y
Of noiseless shoes
That keep interrupting my simple scrawls
By thwomping or scuffling over the stairs.
But next they'll be complaining about how
I rap my knuckles when in thought
And we can't have that, or society will surely buckle.
I
Must write more poetry
Who is I?
Why do we make him write more
God-Forsaken
poetry...
There's plenty
POETRY
P Of Poetry
oe Poetry look here! more poetry!
try poetry
But perhaps it's just
He who has to do it.
I think it's funny how words themselves paint
a picture in that clouded
vestigial
membrane
called the MIND
that's neither here, nor there.
To think that little spark of neurons going on
Right now
Popping off one by one
Is literally just a brain-gasm
As you connect bits and pieces together like
So many jigsaws gnarling oaken branches.
And when something doesn't make sense it clutters
And sp-p-p-utterrssss
For a second
Before some little thought
Fixes it, changes the oil,
And sends it on its way.
Carting the mail of afterthought.
Some thoughts.
Rukeyser's Roads...
What sort of country do the 'roads' in
'Well Then There Now' represent or portray?
A twisting, winding, boldly defining but carefully depicted and fragmented visionary piece of our emotionally charged and altogether explanatory everyday.
Or that's how it seemed to me.
A sensory experiment in combination of syntactical revelation and their dictionated counterparts all in lieu with one another, one driving the van
the other tossing the money next to the spare.
In truth the precise nature of an entire country
(through her work)
seems more related to the individual's flavoring,
their hypersensitive tuning to the smallest of details
in every place they've gone. What we get is that the
system is overly complex.
