All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
Just scratching the surface, Digging holes deepest In soft sand. But, my hand Is but a tool Of the disparaged mind. Would scoop your brain, Heaping, oozing spirit Of knowledge, Fill the ground With its beguiling love -- Stamp it firm And go home. Let me rest. |
I want to escape somewhere inside from you to hear my voice sing without the contempt should I wake you -- something awakened. I want to escape this world, reality, send the falsetto free on changing wind where sweetest harmony finds me. Does it have to be far from you? Limber in a neon room pulsing, should I haul you in my arms, sweep the dusted floor in limber strides, carefree of former sorrow? Would you have me? If I'm not attuned, eyes to the moon, wayward stars, I'm staring directly into a setting sun blazing back at me. One lone star fades on a barren hill. I stand on leaves crisp, air musses the gray growing despair -- too old to behave this way -- Hiding my heart, hiding from your dark. When will our dawn arrive? if not tomorrow? Your eyes contain visions unseen from my vantage. I clear my throat. Hiding in my heart, hiding from your dark, I ask again, does it have to be far from you? 10.1.2017 6.23.20 edit Perhaps, not yet fully realized. |
A nomad With white countenance Stabbing my way westward Drive you out To the unforgiving foothills Lay with the sheep You fear this dark heart A nomad Who dwells With ruthless warriors Disperses Egyptian foes Devours your vineyards Dines on your wild-eyed stock Lay with your sheep Fear in your dark In centuries come A nomad undressed His mysteries revealed He will be blessed To have my blue eyes Visions from ruthless words On scrolls of light Then Lay with your sheep Fear this dark heart Got the idea that my lineage could trace back to the Huns |