I lack creative drive.
what I say feels recycled.
like how cows re-chew their food,
what I say feels processed and flavourless.
I look at what I've written and I simply tear it apart,
I just delete, in a literal sense.
I do not see worthwhile thoughts drifting around which I can elaborate on,
and I don’t have a story.
I feel like I am unable to tap into my pool of originality.
And even that sentence disgusts me.
I am not unhappy
I am just uninspired.
In a bit of a rut.
I want to blame school.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I lack creative drive.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
i take him to place for us
i take him up and down this tiny town
to places far beknownst from you
i take him to my own corners of this non-Timbuktu
we sit a while and ponder things
make love on the swings
i pretend he is you, with your sandy eyes and honest mouth
hands that make me think of trees
i am not really here, you know
i am wherever you decide to go
inhale inhale inhale
on the green tin roof like my marbles in grade two
like my unfinished sentences to those who didnt hear the first
they are insistent important truth
who am i to say what i may and may not do
can i tempt you with a breast
a hidden meaning in my vest?
may you come out tonight to that bar
and dance and kiss and run to places far far far
far so far from what may lie at the end of 5 years and what we may find
amongst responsibilities written on discarded school standard lined paper.
would it all dissolve like smoke and lights and the nighttime haunts
with this lighter?
a hand sliding through clean, dark hair in the afternoon
fingers placed in summer grass
clasped around condensation on a beer glass
___________fast breathing, braced white bedding and sheets
sweat salty from roaming these streets
endless on endless days walking in my blistered feet
maybe if i lost this mile we could end up someplace
loud and ugly
and there we could sit and fall a time
pumping destruction and filth
there are moments frozen in time, somewhere in the past, where we almost-touch-almost-touch. when i think back i see sharp lamp lights and oldfashioned lampshades and feel a breathless feeling, like after sprinting. it feels like being suspended in mid jump, with a world of possibility boiling over into now. not thinking over things to come, but playing blindman'sbluff with what we don't know. i can see the sky and the night and the streetlights through oak trees and i wonder at what it is to be so young.
i've thought that the wind could purify all these sordid tresses and messes of emotions in this attic, or cellar. break all the old wine bottles and make for us a blood river in the wood. i've sat outside for years in the cold, wondering where the breeze has blown you to, and what i would say to the wind if it stopped for a moment to listen to my quarrel with it. how odd, that i could think that i may address the wind.
in warm and clammy silence i damply whisper close to you the softest of things, i want to i want to
and then i thought that if i could live by the ocean, i could meet a young wind and stop it before it ran wild with anyone's heart. maybe i could walk along the coast and search for the magic which i once found in you, and i would not have to listen to old feelings and memories, but banish them to the water's edge.
there would be seagulls and salt and solitude, i wonder if that would finally drive me past the point of no return. vast, empty days spent doubting the existence of the past, as now, here, i sit cramped up in a deep green cocoon.