i've decided to write. as a writer, and thus determined, this is what happens. but, as an artist, confusion sets in and, perfection desired, disasters ensue. too many fancy words clutter the page. artistic whims result in unintelligible mutterings. this is my plight. how can i be good at this?
it's a dream i have to one day publish my blubbering sentiments without first bribing the publisher. i've been through this already. i'm out $65 and I own a 300 page paperweight from the International Poets Society. my poem takes up very little space. honestly now.
a string of streaming thought....
conflicted butterflies swarm the sky
such beauty, might they stay a while
keying into my heartstrings
flickers of color & light catch my eye
where will they happen to next
i'm conflicted. youthful, energetic, stiffled. where am i going? youthful in age. energetic with determination. stiffled only in my career, though this is temporary & i know it. could i possibly see outside of my own experiences? it's that, the greater of human achievements, to see beyond one's own world. my belief. what is that person living, who comes to my desk? what is their life? their joy? their sorrow? we are be-ing. not things. not bodies without souls. we are weakness & strength. we are immortal in the memories of others. we can transcend time and space in someone's thoughts. we can be anywhere (in mind) & nowhere but with ourselves. people are amazing.
customer service confuses me sometimes...when i don't get any, i wonder what are we who fight each other and will not help one another. what is up with THAT?
typing typing typing
pitter patter on the keys
like gentle raindrops
tickling the skin
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