A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.|
The drive north is easier than south in summer.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
And here I am
A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "Black Hole Super Nova Afterglow" , now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:
Having no specific aim going forward...
I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting in 2014. I'm always ready to say too weary. Compulsion compels me, instigation informs, and still here I am...bright, full of light and dark, revealing hidden colors and shapes. That was before...
I hear what you are saying...but especiallly...what you are not.
Yes, I struggle. But I'm getting through it. How are you?
I've gone by other aliases. People remind me of that. Sometimes restrained, it's hard to understand what I write. It will be clear some day. Hard to hide what's in my heart. I'm making no apologies going forward for my feelings. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. Not sure how we'll feel about that.
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.'Now that I've figured out the ever changing rules of your game, you take the ball away, no longer engage me to play. You pay a price for this kind of friendship. I lose, I guess.
You can't just read the parts that confirm (or can be construed as such out of context) your opinion of me, you mentally-stunted Neanderthal.
What? Oh, that? It's just a, ah, self-motivational speech I've been working on.
What? Yes, I should try to make it less negative.
I lean into the door. Rhythms pump hard against my cold flesh,
this dull skin that yearns let you in.
The bass pronounces these beats to my blood --
thin red rivers with no sea to flow,
no place to go
but this pond,
Without your arms to hold back the immersing tides,
soggy fields fill joyless.
I lean into this car
parked, idling --
no desire pull keys from this ignition.
A machine already fired, sun streams warm through guarded glass.
Cold outside this ride engulfed,
flooded by another ocean
I did not see.
Scripted side mirrors tell no lies.
"The Soundtrack of Your Life Challenge"
The sadness of others can pour into this reflecting pool, absorbent.