No More

I write no more (nothing worthy lately, at least), and yet I've never felt such an urge to put my pen down on paper and scribble my life away. It's as if I live for the paper. The paper does not simply live because I live and I choose to give it life. The paper and I are one and the same when I write. It's most dangerous when I become my pen, but it seems that the starched, simple comfort of new paper is nothing but a world, a colony of my thoughts. When I hand a handwritten item to someone, something that I needed to think about and discuss, I'm trusting them with a piece of me. Perhaps that's why I'm so hesitant to share, nowadays. Perhaps that's why I hate to be the one to have the first word, for fear that the last echoes will be completely out of my control and corrupted further.

I do give my mind away, though. All too often, it seems. Perhaps such a treasure, that vicious sensitivity of mine, has been abused, or otherwise neglected. Either way, this is a stream of consciousness in the sense that I see it. I do not speak clearly, after all. Speech runs into too many things along the way of reaching the concept of sound. It seems that the true words I create seem to run through the very highways of my blood, raging and storming their way...home. Home, where they will finally be understood. I am the paper, after all. My life is based on those words, for better or for worse. I've become something that I want, even if it's not the best that I want.

Perhaps it is the new pack of five, beautiful, unused pens that speaks to me right now, and not I myself doing the writing. It has been my audience for quite a while, now. It sits in front of my flat computer screen, watching with its jealous sparkle as I type away and disregard its regal presence. They're five missiles, almost, deemed to have the simple, modest honor of a long peace mission, for which they sacrifice everything and take upon my sadness, my trials, my joys. In turn, when they have reached the pinnacle and get ready to feel the drop, they get a chance to be me, whichever me I had contributed to that particular pen in my usage.

I literally looked into the emptying ink tube of my pen and saw my misery there, yesterday. I saw the old dreams trying to escape through the narrow hole, as if they would be a benefit for the world to hear. In sooth, in sooth. The world, or at least the starched, pinstripe dealings of the paper I adore, will hear the scrawling trials and they will ring loud and clear. Someday, if not now. Someday, when they have grown tired and reclining from the endless stream of passive revolution. Someday, if they do not die out or let me reload in their wicked persuasion to fire at the dark spots within my heart. Otherwise, I feel safe seeing them there. It's like I literally carry them with me and my heart is heavy unless they decide to ride and spend elsewhere.

A Window Into a Soul

A soul not far from my own,
The sun shining in a different place,
In a different time zone.
A different caution we all create and live,
Of course, for no two tick alike,
No two have the same cogs...

Those things that push us forward
And wind us back,
Grinding forth when we must meet
Ourselves, and two ways to run
The same route, the same process;
Writing, if for the world it is.

Flat dimensions do run forward and back,
After all,
Sifting down to find the "up",
Falling down to rise elsewhere,
Such this life, an infinite stream
Of words, words that live apart.

PS: This was an activity from the Writer's Guild meeting that I had today. It was to interview someone else and learn about them, then write an autobiography for them. This took about four minutes, give or take. I meant for this to be a bit of a portrait.

Gossip

Living on the words of another,
The time so fast, the layers fall
each morning when you turn your head
and you aren't you at all.

Your own sad noise adds to the din,
Fighting its own hard right;
Adding thorns to what was said
and giving your days to night.

Beating that pest within yourself,
Who said your guard had eyes?
For him, her, whoever you chose
your ears to cruel surmise?

One day, you must have woke
to become the words you fear:
From he, she, someone, no one,
For it's only they I hear.

Style

Find something that looks too real-
Draw, fill in the blanks
For a memory that fits-
In the space set aside.

Catalogue the pages-
Same shapes in different places,
Same colors landing in different ways-
Until they all get along.

It was always yours-
But you actually want it now
Because you spent more than money-
More so than the time you took.

The Painting

This is someone else's eye
That plants the orchid,
Watering it long ago.

It would be dry and folded away,
But the bloom was young
And time was slow.

I will look, and others
Add a rooted memory,
Breathe out the gentle sky.

In this way, there are seasons,
Long winded as they may be,
But reasons
To keep asking why.

A Morning Away

My thoughts were lost to the open sea
As I set them on the sand.
New ones, I wove through a heart of rocks
Where the veins of the waves coax land.

Out, my words tumbled when the tide came in.
In, as I went to the lonely, barren shore.
How my mind came to me in tricking lace,
Hooked to the horizon, tied to the sea floor.

So much is lost in this unending land
Where the "where" becomes the "why".
Restraint is spilled, but easily a fool
When the land knows more than the eye.

Stream of Consciousness

Inspired by a post I read...

I don't know what to say, because I've never done this before. I usually think a lot before I write. It's as if I'm afraid that the words will kill me once they come out and I'll never be able to swallow life again unless I make the medicine myself. Lemon heads are good, even if it's kind of late at night to be eating candy. I wish I had my zune right now. I ordered it back in March, and I know that it will be coming in sometime around June. Of course, I know better than to wait for things that I don't need, because they always come. It's strange how I feel like such a different person right now. Last year, I was never so wanting of material things and asking for so much. Now, I wonder about my brain and whether I'm normal or not, even if the other half of me accepts the fact that I'm obviously weird and I love being weird because uniqueness is one of the greatest assets one can have. One would think that I would use both sides of my head to do this, but I'm actually only using one side. There's this really hot Korean guy that I saw today at the mall, but obviously I don't know his name. Still, I always tend to fall for the guys that no one else finds very hot, and I always have a soft spot for people who wear glasses. Most people wear glasses these days. My dad's calling me to go drink soup. I think I'll go very soon. That's what I always tell him. It's as if I respect my parents in every way except in reality, in which I'm always throwing my own selfish little needs before things that are infinitely more important. I'm so selfish and wanting, it crushes me when I think about it. Just now I remembered that I should be doing chores right now. Oh, shoot! Bye!