10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules (not my attempt to disrespect, shame or shun. Just doin' me, which has come with its price [I've accepted.]).. Real dialogue accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair? No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ This is old…. What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on. Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting. If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I? …just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself. What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego. #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
A Fine Mess Perfectly fine answers echo the room. Because, perfect IS the enemy of good. And it stands to reason, fine is associated with perfect, deemed better than merely good. Yet, the mere utterance of good as response suffices. Nowadays, perfect, alone, reigns supreme. So, why get all tangled up with fine? Their expression may be discarded as archaic. If perfunctorily pretentious perfect punctuates positive response, then fine and good go at each other. Good wins. Fine behaves as sniveling or sycophant little brother. Good be cool, modifies with merely, or not. The contentious pair had partnered as ‘fine goods’, yet few noticed or cared. They split when perfect hung around too often. Fine, then! Good, I hope you’re happy. Good merely split, while fine stood behind a perfect fool. Eventually there’d be scandal. Perfect retains status, speaks to the common good. Merely sidles up, time to time, seeing perfect union to soften long-held public perception. They sometimes coincide. Perfect, meanwhile, is elusive, vexing, could team with good and neither would care — come together or not. Merely fine might be seen together, when it’s discovered none are monogamous, let alone synonymous, to realize: none are perfect. 5.17.24 There is stuff I write, and there’s stuff I write. This is something I wrote, still and always working on. Hope its good enough for you. Or not. Its all good and fine? |
Not a pretty start to the day when the shit storms of May come early. Profanity. Sorry, Gord. Placeholder Title:”BS Bunker” Saddlebag bullshit camps around me, spares what it might from the sheathing, armor of publicly distributed weapons: happily employed by co-workers, bill-collectors, raging motorists vying for the coveted fastlane to…? anyone might have mad-cow dis-ease — flies buzz around a hot-light-bulb-brain. Close your home, sealed within are the really insane: resentful children, spouse, mother, father, in-law? Words reverb from thick, dull walls into ears you can’t pack with enough mud. Hide in your bunker: clay, lime, sandstone, vat of sangria. Seek refuge within quarry, behind granite rock, remains of wayward meteorites, all blown to smithereens, tainted by grime-dust. Or, retreat to the crystal caves. Bright gems wall eyes for hours. And diamond, fucking diamonds! brittle as glass, tracked by networks, hyperlink clicks, the geo-positioning. Heat-seeking shrapnel screaming, shaming your name! You’re just a boy in bright pajamas again: different flashlight, probiotics, but still colorful crusader comics. Hiding in the tightest, darkest recesses of closet-head, you have seen lifelong where horses and cattle fed, scoop BS remains, packed in army green knapsack, all school daze backpacks, and the accumulated life luggage. BS brims, beautiful savior of high piled excrement — to your rafters, filled until safe, unseen by naked eye, or those equipped with scope, angling full you. Your BS need apply, as self-preservation deludes. Lay forgotten in shithouse-sewer-rubble, and BS, forget even who you are. Holographic stench-heaven lower, wafting from blurred sky. Wisp cloud trails blind two eyes dimming, sinking red-lava-globe still tempting to dream that fourth dimensional arch slide open, gleam brilliant avenues paving escape. Something happens after decades in that BS hole. A mirror reflection? One squint-eye opens? much like the coveted gem that cedes to pressure… implosion, explosion occurs…and what’s the difference? You arrive from sanctuary-purgatory a different man with your stink, befoul the virtual neighborhoods, workplace, shopping plazas, crush- compactor house. Anywhere, free to congregate, delicately defecate your art. It won’t remove the stain-smell skankier than skunk, but if one nears, they should know what they’re in for. Acquire a taste to risk. Bear heart, soul, all eminence to judge, jury, wannabe executioners. Giggle-swing in that galley. You can’t be killed for a greater love, greater good, right or wrong. Witness yourself. Testify. You’re a diamond now and black, flawed as they come. The fuck with them. 5.17.24 You do not want a machine head, but… I become semi-consciously aware (but not slow my writing) lyrics looping through my head…’breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…’ muffled ‘blood is like fire, wine?’ What? And ‘disease’, the hard rock panic, climb-apex with swelling pace, before tempo change, wind down, instruments quake and rest near finish and go right back, indiscriminately to places in song, whether near end or hover over chorus/open. No meds, one cup of coffee after decent sleep. Aware all the more this dull, quiet morning (peaceful unrest). I’m used to it. A lesser person…? I guess I’m tough? Why soften the statement, Brian? All…one finger tapped on iPad. Can’t line fingers on keyboard — what breaks me when I try type, can’t see words go up on screen, or fingers, or oops the caps or number lock buttons. Disable feature somehow? Irony much?? The interior of this poem is being written separate…speaking to the influence(r)s from year 1 to death. Why we become liars out of self-preservation. Why we fight by any means for our share, earned respect, when told FREE! but duped, unfair. Told to act citizen-Christian, if proclaimed, held to higher ideals. Or, be labeled hypocrite, phony, criminal or worse for being human by folks who judge…because…? Who won’t risk as I have, cowards. I seek forgiveness from loved ones and God. Simple: ‘Thank you, God. I’m sorry.” From my heart. He knows why. I know and I work daily to be better, overcome what attempts to antagonize abd provoke. It’s akin to being spat upon. None other will I cede to without mutual honesty. And not my place to speculate, say from this limited perspective. Never assert…again. But, likely to err. Soooo. But capitalism over consumerism, I’m going to fight the power until it is just and/or acknowledges without BS any truth I can accept to loosen my grip on those shitbags. Poem interp: Protagonist is BS and poem demonstrates how one might use it to get through life as comfortably as possible, just worse. Doesn’t make it just, but flawed. (Now I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit, ‘We’ve all been treated like shit…’ and the provoking words that follow. Not intention of poem. One thing leads to another when you’re me.) Unspoken: truth gets dirtied up. |