Please excuse the comma splices, tense changes, verbosity, etc. I was just a youngin' and now I realize the error of my grammatical ways. Plus, I preferred the flowery and descriptive writing styles of the early 19th century and beyond rather than the short, journalistic post-Hemingway-style of writing. I love intense imagery and descriptions in general. Still deciding whether I should edit my old poetry for grammar mistakes or take the Beatnik approach and fuck it.

Disclaimer: I only wrote/write on bad days. Grand days have never inspired me enough to write as I've always used writing as an outlet. A majority of my poetry is angsty, dark humored, or depressing, however, I don't have depression, and I'm not self-destructive or suicidal by any means. My writing is mostly a tenfold representation of the kind of day I was having at the time. Embellishing the realities of my bad days on paper helped turn them into good days. Not sticking my head into an oven anytime soon (or ever, actually). :P +10 points if you got the reference.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Writer's Block

Trembling hands,
Dizzy mind,
Sweaty palms,
Heavy eyes.

Stressful soundless sleep.
Mind awakes, slowly.

My hand beholds my pen,
I write random reflections.

Clear, empty, wordless, thoughtless mind,
Repeating thoughts.
A thesaurus cannot help cure these repeating thoughts.

Thought. Thought.

Got it!

I rationalize, speculate, and conjure up new words to use.
Agony, treachery, torture of writer's block.
A scrumptious language I must soon learn.

Pitiful procrastinating perversion of the mind.

My cranium, bolted into my writing.

My thoughts,
Mailing themselves away from my mind.
No return address.

Well, what good am I as a postmaster of thoughts.

I try to manually think.

Think. Think.


What if I just stopped writing.

All of a suddenly stopped.

No more thinking.
No more thought process.
No more jumbled, good for nothing, use of words.


I stop writing.

I look out my window, noting the beautiful landscape of the world outside.

I made a pact.
I have to keep it.

I cannot write.

Oh, but the rolling hills and gently sloping--

Shut up, mind!

I'm through, done with.

I will never make it as a--

The rays of the sun stroke the land beneath.

The lakes and rivers nearby calmly flow, like the thoughts entombed deep within my mind.

That's it!

I must write...

The hills, the rivers and lakes, the valley - now, THAT is where I belong.

My mind becomes fruitful, offering a plentiful harvest of thoughts - many, many thoughts.

Stretching over the barren lands, through the trees, across the ocean to the ends of the world.

No mind like mine. No mind exactly the same. No mind as sublime as anyone else's.

Copyright © 2008

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