-

The randomness shall come…

-

This is a poem i thought i might share but decided to keep for myself. Now i’m not even sure if i would call it a poem. I just know i like it, and if you don’t, you had better not tell me.

-

-

4 am         7/20/09

-

is writing

the expression

of what

we can’t say

when

we can’t

say it

or

is it

the idea

of writing

that expresses

the ideas

we only

in dreams

dare to

think?

-

-

Don’t expect publications in the way of well composed poetry, i usually keep these for myself. also if you think you have me figured out…well good….

.

.

6:30 pm         8/15/09

.

“Out of Town”

.

Internal strife, tasting much sour

Indecision’s stem, from wrongs concerning

to sleep, a task alone thus going

When to wake, for not wanting this hour

.

The sun, i beckon, and cannot call

It waits no longer, still mad, appalled

now seems it may, that asleep through days

.

with whom seek to find, closed eyes behind

lives a boy, so young of heart and mind

the life he longs, to enter within

lightening his grip, of time at end

.

having slept as such, and wasted much

no pity showered down, from those around

who knew him best, wish him out of town

.

.

it bothers me that all writers write based on personal experience and knowledge. I understand it, but don’t like it. am i understanding correctly that if i write and am any good then all i know and everyone around will segregate themselves from me? i write to appease myself and sometimes i do just the opposite. When i look back upon what was written i end up with hatred. a terrible subject or topic. It is said that all writers suffer from self inflicted wounds. Those being mostly psychological and metaphysical i seem to find. I’m sure the physical pain manifests itself also, but as yet i have not found out. yeah… time….. i’m thinking this may be the last personal writing printed or published. The rest will certainly just be purely stupid entertaining, and random… sounds fun.

.

(tangent:)

i need some food and a nap…

.