But this is useless babbling, I strongly advice you to skip it until you see the tittle of this post again
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It started this way: Me, during my night ritualn (´casue I´m a weirdo that has to keep a routine) an image, words, a sentence and then more image and more sentences. "Stop there, please don´t go just yet, let me finish this and I´ll be all yours" I told my muse and gladly she waited, very impatiently ´cause she kept showing me images, so I had to hurry the whole thing and then I wrote what I´m supposed to be typing here right now and I wanted to put it here yesterday but no, it was time to sleep... And in the morning I was so busy that I couldn´t take a moment to write the little wanna-be-poem and then I was eager to come home to type it and publish it and no! something happened that made me come home late -sigh- I grabbed my notebook and took it downstairs with me and somehow it got forgotten! what?! how´s that even possible-?? I was so eager to write it and in the end it ended up being 8 o´clock and I hadn´t written it in here =/
I think I´ll end up not posting it, at least tonight but this little weird thing about how it came to be will be there -here- oh, yeah, I wanted to talk about this little something I´ve been thinking about and that is dates, no, not like in going out with someone but as in the today´s date, well, not today´s... the point is that, I´ve started to write the date of the day in which I write new things. That´s important because...?
well, it´s important ´cause I´ve been writing for a while -still not so good at it, but I´m talking of time not quality here- and one of these days I went over a few of my notebooks and found little poems and ideas scribbled on the sides of my hand-outs and classes from college and in the back of bills and other stuff and I don´t know when I wrote them and before now it never seemed that important since it only made me impatient b/c I felt like I was going to be thinking of that particular piece for days and days thinking about the time in which a lot of time had passed and I could go back and see what I thought of what I had written -sounds like I´m a very lonely person, huh? well, I am haha- anyway, now, when I look back at those writing I want to know exactly when I wrote them so I´m writing dates now, I hope I don´t forget.
oh, even if I say it and even if who knows when I´ll be posting, I liked that little poem I wrote last night, it has the feeling of my old poems as if they are coming back -finally- but not really, it has a bit of idk maybe bitterness to it but just the right amount. Why am I even commenting my own stuff? isn´t that very narcissistic?
It took me so long to write this good for nothing post -sigh
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Dark Art
A
rippling sound shatters who I am
Splattering my thoughts on the walls
Making a waste of all that my first home
Delicately made so many moons ago
The agony she paid for that first breath spilled
And brought back multiplied by the number of breaths
taken since that first one
So lightly, a loaded topic, taken by me so lightly…
An easy way out,
Five
letters that could mean the difference between my existence…
And my
absence
It is all so heavy that flirting with the idea of it can
be a great placebo
For a
second, for a minute, for an hour
The
obscure fantasy of the power
Of
bringing oblivion upon myself is a lullaby that puts me to sleep,
A chant that weaves itself between words and smiles
And all the useless pleasantries that hammer my mind
day in and day out
There is every reason to give it up
There is one reason to carry on with it
A lack of something
That seems to be engraved in everyone...
I might´ve skipped that particular part
The image of an abstract paint of gray
On
light blue smeared with red
Puts a sardonic smile on my face
The idea of what such art would cause in those
Who care
about the artist make the paintbrush stay still
One, two... the breathings keep adding up
Tonight again this ballad plays in my head
Making invisible lists of little arguments
Too
frail to hold up long enough to push shadows away
Tomorrow
again,
The
spinning wheels
And the
strings on me
Will
make me dance the sad ballet
That keeps adding up cuts and bruises and pain
That's quite the ordeal to go through.
ReplyDeleteI started writing the dates at the beginning of every story I've written and I write the date for every poem, rant, or anything I write on paper. I started doing it for similar reasons to you because I would read stuff from the past and wonder about it and what was going on to make me feel that way...
I only wish I'd written down the date I started ZG. I only know the month and year :(
This makes me think of a witness. Like someone who sees many things and has offered to be of assistance but who's testimony isn't viewed as necessary.
Don't know how much sense that makes but I'm trying the whole think less thing and it seems to spew mumbo jumbo