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nat-lipstadtPoems
the higher standard ~ the excuse jar emptied, plenty of time, still flush with inside insights but end all, stillborn, flushed poems entitled, but not embodied, the cards dealt, but each hand folded, the stack of chips slowly diminished, many small ventures for no gain a verse, a stanza but no bonanza, the mirror of mine own editorial critical gaze enhanced, judges the work unpurposed, nothing passes muster not a one invited to the high school last dance even this lamentation by way of explanation, itself defective, but yet slogging on, progresses - perhaps paper and pen long since discarded, yet mental imagery of myself, surrounded by mountains of crumpled drafts rising up to fill the   surrounding empty floor spaces, feels so real, I am, ha ha, floored and flummoxed somewhere  unbeknownst how, received a crucifixion transfusion, the mind's blood now tainted by this holier barrier, subsequently diagnosed as an official human ailment - the higher standard the faucet of words fills the sink, disordered, spouted molecules, despite the clarity of water, reformation needy for a reformatting nothing suffices, the quench unmet, this purifying filter imposition - the higher standard reduces my scribbling scriptures, to ashen dust, scattered among the gigabytes in a rented cloud supposedly available for resurrection, when the Messiah of Satisfactory arises from the place, where all messiahs await, for further testing, all caught, but none released even this mea culpa to myself, unsatisfactory, barely avoiding, the usual suspects of inadequacy and almost discarded, nearly failing the language barrier, the last test, is it worthy of disseminating?
0
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
the higher standard
the higher standard ~ the excuse jar emptied, plenty of time, still flush with inside insights but end all, stillborn, flushed poems entitled, but not embodied, the cards dealt, but each hand folded, the stack of chips slowly diminished, many small ventures for no gain a verse, a stanza but no bonanza, the mirror of mine own editorial critical gaze enhanced, judges the work unpurposed, nothing passes muster not a one invited to the high school last dance even this lamentation by way of explanation, itself defective, but yet slogging on, progresses - perhaps paper and pen long since discarded, yet mental imagery of myself, surrounded by mountains of crumpled drafts rising up to fill the   surrounding empty floor spaces, feels so real, I am, ha ha, floored and flummoxed somewhere  unbeknownst how, received a crucifixion transfusion, the mind's blood now tainted by this holier barrier, subsequently diagnosed as an official human ailment - the higher standard the faucet of words fills the sink, disordered, spouted molecules, despite the clarity of water, reformation needy for a reformatting nothing suffices, the quench unmet, this purifying filter imposition - the higher standard reduces my scribbling scriptures, to ashen dust, scattered among the gigabytes in a rented cloud supposedly available for resurrection, when the Messiah of Satisfactory arises from the place, where all messiahs await, for further testing, all caught, but none released even this mea culpa to myself, unsatisfactory, barely avoiding, the usual suspects of inadequacy and almost discarded, nearly failing the language barrier, the last test, is it worthy of disseminating?
nat-lipstadt
Written by
nat-lipstadt
99/M/NYC/Lippstadt/Kraków
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
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