One stands up high
A bounce to his step
An arrogance to his voice
Beyond all else bored
Speaking to a rhythm
Speaking to himself
Speaking to anyone who’ll listen
Wearing coats of many colors
Tattered long past repair
But still warm
And still bright
He feels like a god when he says “yes”
And all the people play along
The other sits down low
She’s got purpose
At least I think
And I’ve never heard her voice
Her mind is a web
Where you will be trapped, fucked, and eaten
Dragging bodies back to caverns
Feeling small and painting all the walls
Sucking the sinew out of styrofoam bones
She feels like a god when she does this
And all the people have no idea
They never meet
They never meet
I don’t know, I had a nightmare so I wrote about it, that’s all there is to this one, no deeper meaning or nothing. I guess I’ll try to go back to sleep now.
Ten of twenty nine images I did for someone’s poetry. I’ll link to them all when he hosts it.
My biggest fear is that the first time I have sex ends up like the first time I played Street Fighter: Boring for the other person, terrifying for me, and over in about fifteen seconds.
Poetry is a wonderful medium.
Whereas most art advances with technology, visual art developing dyes and canvases and even computer programs, music inventing electric guitars and synthesizers and recording, poetry evolves behind language. Poetry is as accessible and versatile as the language it’s in, and as spelling and meaning changes, and as new words are created and others fall out of vogue, poetry changes with it, for better or for worse.
Poetry cannot be appreciated by someone who doesn’t speak the language it’s in, nowhere is this more apparent than in the haiku, where when translated it almost always ceases to be a haiku. In that right poetry is possibly the most culturally specific artistic medium, since to be understood by the non native speaker, it must lose some of its value.
Poetry is the art of bending an ever evolving set of rules and sounds decided upon by a hive mind of all the people who ever spoke your language into something beautiful.
Poetry is not just art, it’s a love letter to everyone in the past who unknowingly helped to build the canvas on to which all this beauty is written and spoken.
Who would have thought that hard work, exercise, eating better, and examining what makes me unhappy could help with my depression? Believe it or not for the first time in a long time I have self confidence, motivation, and just plain ol gosh dang happiness! I seriously can’t believe it’s working! I made a conscious effort to combat my depression and it’s working! I’m excited.
I THINK A GIRL LIKES ME WHAT DO I DO? SHOULD I TALK ABOUT BUTTS? I SHOULD TALK ABOUT BUTTS RIGHT?
My life has been open books and blank pages
Canvases primed white ready for exteriors
And every color bright to black at my side
Ready for words about all the forms of light
Freedom to create and freedom to destroy
As I will, as I was, and as I am, it’s always freedom
Interiors forced with shade upon shade of black
And twist pretty words into terrifying threats
I was given two hands and no rules
So they wander long past sunrise till I’m exhausted
And all that I have left for them is boasting
Thoughts curve in spirals endlessly
And I will bite the one who tries to stop them
But my physical path is disturbed
From the straight lines into sine waves into static
I beg only for control over myself
So I write love letters to the hands around my neck
And songs to all the ropes around my wrists
And poetry to every time it really hurt
And all my self portraits are painted over
With images of things that really matter.
Poetry! Cause I’m boring like that and all I do is write poetry. This one is an exploration of both my rejection of authority and my desire to be controlled, seemingly being at odds with one another. I like it honestly, I think I did good this time.