Tuesday
April 10, 2012
Seems that I get on one track of thought in writing. I guess that all writers find something that they want to write about and do just that... But in doing that also try to find new avenues ways to convey what is going on in the creative mind. My problem right now is that I don't have enough avenues to travel down so it seems to be the same scenery. I guess that's not bad.... but I need to explore more and find different ways to express that exploration. But for now:
Existence, whittled
down to simple
black and
white, to nothing more
than words
upon a page,
to pitted
skin and saggy flesh
and wayward
thoughts for something,
something
more than this.
More than
waking, stretching out my arms and legs
which always seek
a bigger shadow than the shadow
hanging on
the wall. Something more than sleeping in
when the sun comes
out, dreaming endlessly through
cloudy days,
never knowing if I sleep or am awake.
I listen to
the whispering wind outside
and realize
it no longer shares itself with me.
The quiet
girls in English class excite me when
they bend, pretending
to pick up books which had,
somehow, quite
magically fallen to the floor.
I use to love
to watch them, but not so much these days.
I’d rather watch the night
fade without a thought for hips.rrw 4-10-12
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