| i like this one. |
[17 Nov 2004|09:58am] |
I’m an Arrogant Bastard
or
(What Pisses Me Off About Poetry and Why I’m Probably Never Going To Be a Writer)
say it.
say it to me.
don’t fuck around.
you wanna say something?
come out and say it.
i don’t need to know what all those fuckin words mean
i don’t need all that bullshit
i don’t need hatred or sorrow or pain
you don’t need pain to write poetry.
i don’t need you to describe every aspect of your picture.
you’d be surprised how much meaning fewer words will have
or how much meaning less words will have.
or how much meaningless words you have.
cut them up.
unlike this poem of course.
less words my ass.
laugh. chuckle. nervous.
i’m talking to you right now because i’m tired of this shit.
you wanna say something?
you wanna express yourself?
show me something new.
[unlike, of course, this nice piece of unoriginality]
yeah i know you’re having a tough time.
we’ve all had them.
and we all write during those times because it
FEELS GOOD.
but a thousand pages about death
or about sin
or about depression
isn’t gonna help you.
i’m coming out and i’m saying it.
because trust me
you’ll feel a lot better if you do.
you want meaning?
fuck meaning.
its just words.
why don’t you wake up?
quit dreaming this dream your dreaming
don’t constrain yourself
poetry doesn’t need rules.
poetry doesn’t even need meaning.
take it seriously
but once in a while
don’t.
to me
poetry needs interest.
so if you wanna say something
just fuckin say it
and if you can’t
then thats poetry.
i’m an arrogant bastard.
laugh.
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| squirrels |
[17 Nov 2004|12:14pm] |
There is one that lives in the trees outside
my window. Sometimes she has a friend
with her. Mostly she is alone, though.
I watch her all the time--Gathering the
acorns from the ground, running back
and forth to her home. I wonder if
she's lonely. If she complains to herself as
she's gathering. Or if she does what
she must do, no complaints, so she can,
later, do what she loves to do.
(I'm not new, but this is my first post.)
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| "Caught in your violent room." |
[17 Nov 2004|11:25pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 curious |
] |
That nawing feeling was back in the pit of her stomach. That feeling of hatred and depression. It was something she could never supress. He did this to her. Everytime he called, every word he uttered. He just made this feeling amplify in her. She swears he took ten years off her life, easily. He would reach out to touch her. Her first reponse would be to recoil back into herself. However, on the outside, she did just the opposite. She would crawl onto his lap, pull his arm around her, and listen to his heart. She would wake up hours later, hating herself for letting that happen for the umpteenth time. That was always the last time she would let herself do that. Somehow, it never ended. That sick feeling always stayed...
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