A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires; casting words like seed worldwide.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.|
Mel Brooks once famously said, 'they can't all be gems.' Or, at least that's how I attribute it. Odd reference, I know.
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 "SuperNova Afterglow: Shining Brighter" , 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.
|She was talking tattoos and indirectly said,
"Does Brian have a tat?" to which I responded
mine were scars from a reckless life
chasing balls, colliding with obstacles
but never fists, which I regretted, because
it is what I think she would have admired most.
My skin is pure and cut, muscles running deep,
which she may have acknowledged but
didn't seem to take in. My blue eyes always
intense could have revealed a moody one,
filled with angst to pain (but soft for her),
notes from my soul fill with refrains
never sung to her -- because she was looking
the other way, studding her nose daily,
killing pain with weed and beer nightly,
dancing until she had to be carried off,
staggering out night clubs and cars
to places now very far (and warm) from where
we once enjoyed a charade. She chirped
and I tuned in, hoping to reveal a side
she couldn't possibly fathom existed
in a tortured boy masquerading as a man.
We'll never come to that bridge, though.
I sing each night and day away as if she
will one day realize what she neglected to hear.
Not an unrequited love poem...just something I wrote about a seven year old
memory of someone who teased when she touched but never truly sought the
heart of a man, which might have been deeper than she could have understood.
and if she would ask me now, get to really know me rather than employ the
generational stereotypes, she'd see dimensions of a wonderful journey.