Direct your attention to May 13th as it's the only thing of interest in this blog,
You should probably direct your attention to May 13th as it's the only thing of interest in this blog, unless you like random fencing convos with obscure references, or bad poetry....also this stuff is just being transferred from note pad...envision stanzas or something if you're so inclined.
Suit yourself...don't say I didn't warn you, and don't get mad about it.
I used to write.
Used to.
That is to say, once did, before the
ability to put it all down just so left
took a vacation and left me grasping for
words out of spite.
And occasionally, from time to time you
know, I long for that ability to come
back, or step out of the shadows
proclaiming "haha, I was just hiding for
a bit, but I've now seen the light"
I used to be a poet.
I know it.
And really I guess we all are for poetry
it exists within the heart and soul
entirely independent of whether one has
the ability to pull it out and show it.
I used to write, I feel my words left
for spite, or really maybe they left me
b/c it was right.
I mean if you don't use it you lose it
(bear with me here)
If you don't use it you lose it, but
what are you supposed to use for? What's
right?
At what points do a man's words become
noble and useful, expressing the
inexpressible, but for what can we call
it right?
Or perhaps I'll put it this way: If you
don't use it you lose it, but how the
hell do you use it right?
Are words that express the depths of
mankind's plight more noble than the
words of a man who successfully sets out
to frame then flesh out the
multidimensional feeling of a color like
white?
Is it ok for entry to exist for poetry's
sake or is the proper allocation of our
words something that we need to aspire
to?
I used to be a poet.
Used to be.
I know it.
It's true.
And where have the words gone?
I once was a poet...I know it
But now the words have dissolved, and
all I seem to have left are rather sappy
musings about how I love you, or could
love you better than the rest.
And maybe that's why the words ran away,
because the poems they make can no
longer claim to be selfless, but
selfishly crafted loved crafted love
poems with no well defined object of
affection, and words that stir
constantly with wraithlike unrest
And maybe one day they'll come back,
when they realize that they are for you
Much in the way I am for you
Because I don't really know who you are
(b/c you're really not interested if I
already do)
But whoever, wherever, there must be a
you, and until I know for sure there's
only one truth:
The Truth is you are Beauty, and I can't
help but Love you.
Suit yourself...don't say I didn't warn you, and don't get mad about it.
I used to write.
Used to.
That is to say, once did, before the
ability to put it all down just so left
took a vacation and left me grasping for
words out of spite.
And occasionally, from time to time you
know, I long for that ability to come
back, or step out of the shadows
proclaiming "haha, I was just hiding for
a bit, but I've now seen the light"
I used to be a poet.
I know it.
And really I guess we all are for poetry
it exists within the heart and soul
entirely independent of whether one has
the ability to pull it out and show it.
I used to write, I feel my words left
for spite, or really maybe they left me
b/c it was right.
I mean if you don't use it you lose it
(bear with me here)
If you don't use it you lose it, but
what are you supposed to use for? What's
right?
At what points do a man's words become
noble and useful, expressing the
inexpressible, but for what can we call
it right?
Or perhaps I'll put it this way: If you
don't use it you lose it, but how the
hell do you use it right?
Are words that express the depths of
mankind's plight more noble than the
words of a man who successfully sets out
to frame then flesh out the
multidimensional feeling of a color like
white?
Is it ok for entry to exist for poetry's
sake or is the proper allocation of our
words something that we need to aspire
to?
I used to be a poet.
Used to be.
I know it.
It's true.
And where have the words gone?
I once was a poet...I know it
But now the words have dissolved, and
all I seem to have left are rather sappy
musings about how I love you, or could
love you better than the rest.
And maybe that's why the words ran away,
because the poems they make can no
longer claim to be selfless, but
selfishly crafted loved crafted love
poems with no well defined object of
affection, and words that stir
constantly with wraithlike unrest
And maybe one day they'll come back,
when they realize that they are for you
Much in the way I am for you
Because I don't really know who you are
(b/c you're really not interested if I
already do)
But whoever, wherever, there must be a
you, and until I know for sure there's
only one truth:
The Truth is you are Beauty, and I can't
help but Love you.