It’s cold in here and my stomach burns from hunger. I have a sick feeling, I think drawn from emotion, that permits me to take a weak form of poetic license. I pretend I’m working only so I can pretend you interrupt me. Ridiculous. I lie to you, I lie to myself… what’s the difference, I feel the same either way.
I feel some sort of disease, maybe just diseased. I’m not even sure of being unsure anymore, it all seems pointless and contrived.
I think tomorrow I’ll start again, start again, start again.
I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I’ll still be right here, right where I’ve always been.
There is no art inside me: the act of death in the opera of life. A weak movement, barely noticeable, hardly applicable.
I rose as if to speak but I knew nothing would come. Some words remain silent, they refuse to be verbalized. But just as surely they’ll speak themselves aloud to you later in private. They’ll come flowing out in a deflated sense, estranged from their original context and intent. They’ll fill up your glass with a form of liquid insincerity, then spill over the side and stain your carpet. A ridiculous thing to envy really, the combination of certain words, phrases like dead gestures vainly trying to signal for help. Let’s talk about malice and the loss of god with a capital “G”. Celebrities on the big-shot screen, a picture in a magazine. An oven spewing gas into the world of oxygen. Our tonight underneath the stars that shine like broken glass on velvet, our skulls stretching to the point of pain. Stress, reaction, collapse. A deformation of tradition and originality forgotten by candlelight. A disregard for indifference, a latent fear of birth.
SCREAMING: this is the wrong thing to say. The loss of words with meaning.
I never quite managed. Never quite cared enough to care.
The meaning of the loss is careless…….and not caring is quite managable.
Comment by susanawdee — November 29, 2007 @ 1:44 am
People just know.
Some say ‘no’ a lot.
Some say ‘yes’ too much.
Some stay, some go.
Some sway, some stress.
But people just know.
It’s not necessarily a case and point on any one focus.
It’s emphatic.
It’s children sitting in hospital beds learning how to be okay with the world.
I can really read where your coming from though…
Just so long as a certain website called wordpress still exists.
Take it easy, you’re not under a contract to please million’s daily. Or keep tabs on the meanwhiles omnipotently.
:\ Right?..
Comment by kshino — November 29, 2007 @ 2:25 am
Also, in reply to susanavidee’s comment.
We’ve been able to manage, since the age of man. :)
We eliminate cares according to the way we feel, and think. -I think. Another’s breath of fresh air doesn’t help. It’s becomes vicarious. It becomes.
We all get a writer’s cramp. Even the one’s that have never lifted a pen. The Writer’s Guild is on strike. There are people in our society who wait for these types of things to just blow over. WHere does that leave us? Where do humans stand in contrast to the lies?
Comment by kshino — November 29, 2007 @ 2:31 am