So I've been extensively prolific in the last few days. Either the vomit of ranting out ideas has shoveled its way up my throat and through my fingertips or I'm just tearing down the 'pretty, sugar & spice' girl that people seem to want from me. Both are extremely satisfying.
I'm realizing that I use recurring words or ways to get out of things in my stories/poems/writing. When I can't think of anything at all, I will insert the word 'soft' or 'separate' or 'belief'. To get out of nearly any situation, I use a doorbell. I have yet to figure out what this means.
I've been trying to raise poems out of the muck of my half-breed drawing poems where the words curl around violent shapes and don't have a clear beginning or end. It's kind of fun, but also challenging. Because I am such a noob that I use the words 'soft' and 'separate' about every other damned sentence. So here it goes, a poem created out of a half-baked one which I hope may one day turn into a slam which I can then bring to the stage. Grr. Now it makes this seem all important.
Time.
Time to retract. Restate. Rebuild.
It's no longer a matter of justice - only politics. Only progress.
Move forward, ask questions later;
Were you ready? To move on to the next philosophy?
An open-book policy only drags you down,
Words are drowned out by the constant hum of the printed page -
The textbook expectations of your mass-produced mindset,
Words. Are. The. Meaning.
Words were the meaning...
Are you ready to go yet? Are you ready now?
We pride ourselves on that ideal which separates man from monkeys.
Think now, do later,
But I can't absorb your soft prayers to foot soaks and anti-bacterial sprays,
Think. Think about what you're doing to yourself;
Cover me up with the plastic remnants,
And shower me with this mantra in order to heal.
Words Are The Meaning. Words Are The Meaning.
Where are your suppressions?
To be human is all about suppression.
Rebirth. Direction.
Take a position. Take a stand.
Overexpose the soft sentiment for a brief glimpse at clarity:
Maybe you'll catch a glimpse of something intensely real.
Words were the meaning; now actions count as currency.
Clamor for the bleeding earth, bio-diesel, safer products, richer soil, hair extensions, tofu lunches...
Then, when all is said and done,
Quiet,
Can you hear your slow heart beating?
That steady swirl of black ink in your veins?
Words are the meaning.
There are places for your empty pause.
My heart is not one of them.
I'm realizing that I use recurring words or ways to get out of things in my stories/poems/writing. When I can't think of anything at all, I will insert the word 'soft' or 'separate' or 'belief'. To get out of nearly any situation, I use a doorbell. I have yet to figure out what this means.
I've been trying to raise poems out of the muck of my half-breed drawing poems where the words curl around violent shapes and don't have a clear beginning or end. It's kind of fun, but also challenging. Because I am such a noob that I use the words 'soft' and 'separate' about every other damned sentence. So here it goes, a poem created out of a half-baked one which I hope may one day turn into a slam which I can then bring to the stage. Grr. Now it makes this seem all important.
Time.
Time to retract. Restate. Rebuild.
It's no longer a matter of justice - only politics. Only progress.
Move forward, ask questions later;
Were you ready? To move on to the next philosophy?
An open-book policy only drags you down,
Words are drowned out by the constant hum of the printed page -
The textbook expectations of your mass-produced mindset,
Words. Are. The. Meaning.
Words were the meaning...
Are you ready to go yet? Are you ready now?
We pride ourselves on that ideal which separates man from monkeys.
Think now, do later,
But I can't absorb your soft prayers to foot soaks and anti-bacterial sprays,
Think. Think about what you're doing to yourself;
Cover me up with the plastic remnants,
And shower me with this mantra in order to heal.
Words Are The Meaning. Words Are The Meaning.
Where are your suppressions?
To be human is all about suppression.
Rebirth. Direction.
Take a position. Take a stand.
Overexpose the soft sentiment for a brief glimpse at clarity:
Maybe you'll catch a glimpse of something intensely real.
Words were the meaning; now actions count as currency.
Clamor for the bleeding earth, bio-diesel, safer products, richer soil, hair extensions, tofu lunches...
Then, when all is said and done,
Quiet,
Can you hear your slow heart beating?
That steady swirl of black ink in your veins?
Words are the meaning.
There are places for your empty pause.
My heart is not one of them.
