"folders" poems
Manila folders holding clues
Wine glasses filled with apple juice
And to my surprise, a broken heart
Just got a very needed jump start.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.
And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?
‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.
It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.
My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado.
Where puffers stand in line
to have a good-old-time.
I wish you were in Colorado
and puff away your blues,
and have a restful snooze.
Where people laugh
out loud and make their puffers' cloud.
And people stop and stare
into thought provoking air,
and talk about the deeper things
in life.
Sensuous summer fills
my mind
between my munchies
all the time.
My tastebuds shout in glee
with popcorn near my reach
and soda made of peach.
Colorado, Colorado,
I hear you callin' me
forget about that tree
of good and evil be.
And smoke away-at times-
those nasty nursery rhymes
cramped between
folders made of black.
Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado
to get a mountain high.
Where puffers' stand in line
to have a good-old-time...
Since not allowed to light
we're allowed to write:
"Let the **** reign forever"
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
strawberry frenchfries dipped in chocolate fondue.
cry me an 8 oz cup of water when i step on you with my giant blue shoe.
dance through the forest with gnomes stapled to your shoulders.
hide your foil gum wrappers in manila folders.
left and right. front to back,
oxygen in the atmosphere may lack.
pluto and jupiter intertwine when night falls.
orange and green leather sewn to your ragdoll.
licking the excess frito crumbs from under your fingernails,
eyes pealed to the scenery of wacky inmates in jail.
selfish yellow and blue fish yelling at dr. seuss,
reading books in sunrooms drinking orange juice.
camera flashes and ripped dollar bills,
making chocolate pancakes on top of cherry hills.
hazy eyes drowning into a dream,
winter nights as cold as ben&jerrys; ice cream.
red hand chasing numbers on a clock,
movement of legs turns muscles into rock.
acid drops from black heart clouds falling onto driveways.
little kids on scooters munching on happy meals while saddened by the loss of sunrays.
23 degrees celsius and shine forcing itself through.
ice cream trucks and roadraged humans trying to get through.
bumble bee roads with lines and street signs,
teens boredum, smoking dope, drinking ***** getting fines.
police on the prowl everyday, every night, seeing through lies,
keeping their sight wide-open like a mouth in surprise.
fettuchini alfredo at fancy restaurants.
ice cold water knocked over on a ladys lap.
words missing letters, conversations missing sound.
apples and basketballs losing shape and sense of round.
flat chested skinny ******* slipping through cracks in wooden floors,
obese transexuals getting stuck in between doors.
puzzle pieces glued to the top of a bald head,
veins appear blue but blood is red.
blowing kisses, blowing out candles
cats,dogs,birds wearing sandals.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
As I lay in my bed I can't help but notice the little imperfections,
the chip in my dresser,
the small crack in my wall,
the poster tilted every so slightly to the left,
the flickering light,
the scratch on my phone,
the poorly organized folders,
the fact that the paint on my ceiling is whiter in certain areas,
the stitching of my flannel coming loose,
the fact that my left foot is bigger than my right,
the scar on my left pointer finger,
the fact that my left ring finger bends to the right,
the fact that the paint on my ceiling is whiter in certain areas,
as I lay here noticing the little imperfections I come to a realization,
little imperfections don't cause a system to fail,
my room is still a room,
I'm still living,
it seems to be easier to focus on the little imperfections rather than the system as a whole.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
It was supposed to be fun.
New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.
Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.
It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.
I forgot until History.
The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.
He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.
His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."
The teacher wasn't the problem.
The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.
At least in the school system he did.
"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"
And my life shattered all over again.
The silence felt
Deafening.
Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.
"Bennett Rill?"
The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.
It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
I want to touch your base,
I want to touch base.
Now we're gonna circle back
To our circle ****
Feel the warmth of my regards
Deep in your archive folders.
Savour the tingling of my best wishes,
Between your table of contents.
I want to touch your base,
I want to touch base.
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 9:56 PM UTC
I was pulling up in the car park at the Immigration Removal Centre
When I realised that I'd completely f 'ed up
Having remembered:
- portable recording studio
- condensor microphones x 2 (one of them doesn't work, dunno which one, they look the same)
- dynamic microphone (sometimes works)
- XLR cables x 2 (in a tangled mess)
- Jack cables x 2 (joining the party)
- headphones
- headphone splitter (a remedy for people who are always on their phone?!)
- big-to-little adapters
- kettle lead (so named because it dates back from when the kettle was king)
- guitar
- and two folders of important bits of paper (well, at least some of it might be important)
I suddenly realised that I'd forgotten the only genuinely essential thing.
My passport.
You can't get in without your passport.
That's the rule and the rules don't bend.
Security is paramount.
I find my colleague, Lucky, sitting in his car.
Lucky: "Kev, you aren't gonna believe this but..."
He didn't need to say anymore.
I knew that he had done the same thing.
Lucky and I were in the same *** of s***.
But for some reason they made an exception.
We were lucky.
It must had rubbed off.
(true story)
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 1:53 PM UTC
The courtroom was buzzing,
Deals were struck,
Before Her Worship
Heard from the docket.
Will Luke be saved.
A line of roguish consorts
All on Legal Aid,
Paraded before Her,
In judical chains.
And the lawyers are asking
About The Game of Thrones.
There are too many cops,
All creased and shiny,
Carrying file folders,
Outling the crimes.
I was a spectator,
Small in my corner,
As Luke went to stand
Before his maker,
Before his deal breaker.
All charges dropped,
As if a matter of course;
Except for the charges
From the laswyer and court.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the burdens that we hold are for our backs to curve years of wisdom---to reach peace:}
hard for me to express
the things you left in me are in mess
the buildings so high scared to my *******
believed things come now to their bests
acceptance of the unknown faces that bloom on the yellow stairs
moments I found it a burden to bare
then you another ranger in those brown tiles
made me drink that blue liquor made me smile
laughter in the wooden walls I will uncover soon
even when the visits brought a past gloom
searching is something I was meant to do on those borders
never will I know or remember unless I read the folders
feel the flies in the green lands
a tingle plastered on the hands
but nothing more than that stance you ******
put a lot of grace because of a simple caring lace
is it okay if this while took a late
that mere second has been stuck written on my fate
those arms gambled with my noes
even though a little lie
didn't hurt
didn't go
far from the beyonds
that red sweater
a path to the wallpaper
to the given weather
-------ravenfeels
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 5:22 PM UTC
I met a Carnival Arsonist
burlap sack around her
fiery heart, force taught
to start fires
bright, to distract her from stars.
Always sat in her ashes
Marlboro hacked up her passion
until the ferris wheel called her
to get a glimpse at her burns.
Each night it's siren syringes
hallucinations injected noises
bending over foreclosure
turning up folders
found an old phone her
Owner planted to spy.
He popped her first red balloon
kept the dart pressed in her side.
Manic Panic won't let her dye.
Her highlights don't hide her lies.
"I'm Fine" always "I'm Fine".
Built thick walls of timber
to guard to try Tinder.
Tender to two tired hearts
begged strangers to beat her
"Play a game, win a prize
Play a game, win a prize"
Poured gasoline on the
carnival, watched it
burn from inside.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
When it's not so sad anymore I will show pictures of us to my future children.
I keep them hidden in 7 different folders on my computer to try and hide them from myself so I don't get weak and want to look at the better days.
I deleted you from social media, I blocked you, but as we all know that's a temporary solution to the bigger problem.
I always find love for you even when I hate you deep down inside- hidden under 7 layers of skin and memories.
When it's not so sad anymore I almost wish we would run into each other on the streets.
Maybe it won't be so awkward, I'll have moved on and you'll have moved on but maybe there will be a small spark still there.
When it's not so sad anymore, I will eventually delete those pictures from my memory and my computer.
I will find a way to permanently erase your love one of these days... maybe 7 months from now, maybe 7 years from now... someday.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
I
Suddenly, I'm nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler,
and we were blind to the evil that dwelt amongst its thrushes
where we played.
We coloured its black and white pages
with crayons,
and placed them somewhat carelessly
into the folders of our memories.
Now we constantly search for them,
and the joy that was once ours.
II
The dark was my sworn enemy,
but now I embrace it with open arms.
Curiosity was once my dear friend,
now I've all the answers I never wanted.
Questions continue to bloom
in my garden of knowledge
and I let them die.
Afraid to know the truths,
I would rather nourish the lies
I have planted.
III
Suddenly I am nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler;
when I could admire the roses,
without glancing at their threatening thorns;
when I could freely laugh,
and not feel the tears behind my eyes;
when I could dream my whole world up,
and not fear it will come crashing down.
Ignorance was really bliss,
and freedom, never my wish.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
The Professor drones on.
I glimpse at my phone...quick-link to trending news... "Grease thieves" the headline reads.... Envirogeeks stealing french fry grease to run their old diesel tour bus. Willie's on the road again it seems.
I imagine 60's dressed high school girls stealing DVD's of the classic movie musical and every girl I every dated singing the part of Oliva Newton-John in all the songs. The old love-crush imagined from my boyhood brain surfaces.
The long legs of the most beautiful fair-haired Australian beauty. In that last scene wearing those tight leather jeans... "Oh Sandy"....Don’t believe me, ask your girlfriend the first thing that pops in her head when you say the word “Grease”...it won’t be french fry.
Wait candy!...Freeing my ceased-up palm from the creases of my deep-seated thesis folders, releases my pack’s last handful of Reese's Pieces. Nearly asleep, I study the candy's ingredients as Dr. ancient geek waxes eloquent about Theseus, redemption and ancient Greece. The very parallels rule my brain insanity.
The oil from Palm trees burned bright that night the ancient Greeks create a democratic state gathered in an ancient auditorium designed for debate or education or to tempt our fetes and fates with historical songs, love stories and tragedies of the day.
All so my present day brain could reference the social tragedy love songs of "Grease".... the unchanged, tour-bus-fueling power of oil and grease stolen in the name of freedom, a ancient Greek democratic freedom voted on in a auditorium the very design of this Greek History classroom copies.
****** why are they putting Palm Oil in my Reese's Pieces?!?!
11:34am starts.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
We were never a fan of dialogues.
At the other end of the street I would watch her
Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.
I didn't like to read.
I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.
The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup
And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.
I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables
Producing a different piece each time.
Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.
At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?
She was a song, I was a poem.
She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,
Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.
I was a poem.
I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.
Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.
I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,
Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,
A waste of time,
Flawed.
She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
We piled up dishes,
yours and mine, both.
We didn't feel like cleaning our messes- we both had our own only we could handle.
It took months for us to realize how high the plates were stacked,
-actually, at first, only I realized.
-actually, you never realized.
We had plates in every crevice.
You balanced spoons on top of the photo albums,
I piled forks on my old notebooks,
Knives were stabbed into the walls,
I put bowls on top of my albums,
You stacked plates on your bed,
I put the cups onto my bed,
and we could never really sleep again.
We couldn't open old letters or see past pictures,
(things grew easier that way, or so we deluded to ourselves)
and the plates and silverware and bowls and cups
ruined our lives,
so that we had to learn to live with our own messes,
but, eventually, I realized
I couldn't live in this mess;
I started to clean up. I made some **** good progress, too.
It was a challenging task, but I've done well.
I can sleep most nights now,
but sometimes I still turn and find
a fork lost somewhere in the sheets.
When I open old folders, sometimes a teaspoon falls out,
and I can't help but get lost in the mess again,
but it's gotten better for me; it can get better for you.
You're not letting it, though.
You go out and buy dishes just to ***** them,
because you get a kick out of living in a mountain of plates and silverware.
I don't think we can ever be clean again,
completely at least,
but you've got to get rid of your mess,
or else, you'll be just another plate in the pile.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
bruised knees and bandaids
your mom is no longer your best friend, she'll scream words that burn your ears
she won't read you fairy tales before you fall asleep at night
CD's and ballet
school buses, new folders and the boy next door named Tyler
he'll want you for your body, he'll spread rumors throughout the school
you'll only want it to go away
girls you share laughter with and teachers you idolize
everything becomes different
the only thing you'll share with those girls is a pack of cigarettes and the stories you hear in the hallway
gummy bears and juice boxes have turned into prescription medicine and shots of *****
just wishing for one good day
your special blankie and your favorite hair bow
hidden in a closet behind the new skirt your dad doesn't like you wearing
disney movies, popcorn made on the stove and your whole family smooshed onto one couch on a friday night
those friday nights turn into another day of choking back cheap alcohol and ignoring your grandmother's emails
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Enslaved by the Mind
slaves of its cravings
Likes and Dislikes
chained with tangled strings
~
Enslaved to the world
Repeating circles endlessly
Networking and Socialising
What are we trying to sustain?
~
Enslaved to our misery
Nature's calling in evolution
Selection and Elimination
A thousand folders to maintain
~
Let's think about something else
Something made of love and light
Pause and Rethink
God's most precious gift is- free will
~
Let's embrace the random
A blessing in disguise
Willingly take a step towards freedom
Know what it's like being
A Free Being
~
Let's acquit ourselves of the guilt
Annihilation of all that carried since
that's not truly you
All it takes is a moment's will
A decision to break on through
~
Let's think about something else
something made of light and dark
know that dark too has its part
embrace them both alike
~
Let's familiarise with ourselves
in our aloneness
the Unclouded being
that's not static but shall forever flow
for if it wasn't for the Sun and Moon
we wouldn't know
Equanimity
Know what it is being
A Free-Being
~~
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
in this room
noise level
rising
and my pen erupts
the hard truth
it's time to change, again
this frightens me
and i feel lost
transition tightens at my throat
and i start to gasp
i want more of that
terrifying realization
weak and simple
this me, the one that evolved from sand
quickly turned to glass
never setting entirely
permeable and translucent
yet sharp and cutting
she's scratching again
the bars have tightened
the dull and tranquil
merely stagnation
dressed up
bows and pleated skirts in place
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
I had to count twice on my fingers to be sure of that.
It glues together many, many words.
It fixes people to the walls.
It shrivels fruit in the bowl.
It sticks us all in the same soup ****
Let's swim.
You have 19 reasons to die,
written out like manuscripts in manila folders
populating a small cubicle containing your confidence
pasted to the walls, and neatly nested on the next door desk
at least you told someone.
The logic of your feeling breathing life into the spreadsheet,
The simple clicks of order covering up the shame of dead weeks
Day in Day out working toward a little more
Waiting for the future where the ability to break out is yours.
Cage around each arm. Suffering in small doses.
Never overwhelming the epicenter.
I have 19 reasons to die.
Scrawled in sidewalk chalk on 17th street.
Ringing in the ears of all my close relatives and their next of kin.
They say, "Hurry up and usher in the next generation so we can stop worrying about fixing yours."
The crumpled cover letters in my compactor spell pure love, and the reasons it's never noticed.
Simplicity in disarray, a life of static colors. Repugnant sorrow odors.
I am the only town crier left in this town.
Always complete but never fulfilled.
The sad sequel to a Mexican standoff with a self-referential story.
Narcissism and narcotics.
Nihilism and Mnemonics.
Space and the stuff of the stars.
Love and the war of the heart.
S is the 19th letter of PSEUDOPSEUDOHYPOPARATHYROIDISM
No it's not but what a great word.
No it's not but aren't you glad you tried to count?
No it's not but aren't you satisfied with yourself for trying to decipher?
No it isn't and wasn't it worth it to try to speak the sounds?
No it is not and wasn't it the sibilance in your mouth worth every second?
No it is not thank you come again have you had your fill when we're only 19/26?
Reasons to live:
Seemingly unneeded. We're here aren't we? Doing what we could only be meant to do.
R is the real 19th letter.
One more would have been S.
But you'd never know if you didn't count.
So let's count.
Ready?
3...2...1...
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC
I think, perhaps, that I
may have been born for a different time
Maybe my soul rested too early
On an infant never meant to be me.
I look around, and it seems so strange,
People dig for shallow ore; I seek a deeper vein-
but those who skim the surface are rewarded
It seems like all my hopes are thwarted
by our reality, such a subtle thing,
that defines who we are by how we gleam
with gold and glitter, all so transient-
I think friends and memories are more significant
Everyone calls accepting this reality "growing older"
So you become less of yourself? Get lost in folders
and numbers and binders and paper; and days
are slipping by, as you're getting paid
For what? To own a house you never see?
Drive a nice car to a place you hate to be?
NO.
No, I say, this is a better solution:
NEVER. GROW. UP. That's my resolution.
**** Fight. Dream. While you're still young, retire.
Throw all your junk out and set it on fire.
Move to a place that you've never been.
Make friends, fall in love, and then do it again.
Never get settled; never set down your roots;
always try the new, and I tell you the truth-
You'll find you live richly with far less wealth,
and your life will have meaning-one you gave it yourself.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:44 AM UTC
Is never the end, vastness
Cerebral expanses,
Horizons, hikes, labyrinths
Within labyrinths within
Every book that ever could be written
Every ever that could ever be
Files, folders, sections
Subsections in subsections within
The human brain cannot catalog
The universal sum
The tally is never totaled
The end is never the end
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
I need to write; I have ideas swirling around my mind most of the time. But if I haven’t got somewhere or something to note these ideas down, they drift off, lost.
I’d like to think I’m a good writer, but I know I’m not. Or maybe I’m too self-deprecating. It’s a cultural thing with me, which I’m not going to talk about here at this time. Some other time will feel right for that.
Having said that, words come easily to me. I can create wordscapes with my writing. I’ll write about many things, about love, loss, death, desire, hope and defeat. The images I see when I pen something are real, the patterns the words create are tangible to me.
But I’m also a lazy writer. I love the fact I can find on-line a multitude of sites offering advice for writers, rules to follow to help make you a good writer. I spend a lot of time reading these. What I need to be doing is writing, not reading about writing! You will be amused how many novels I have started to write. Some have evolved into short stories, others into free verse poems. One day I may actually write the novel that’s in me; I’m certainly not short of ideas, when I remember them! And I have folders full of novels I’ve started. Some of them end up as short stories. Lazy, see …
What is hard for me is to focus that inner discipline to write. But when I do tame the procrastinating voices, words spill out in a rush of creativity.
Is that approach wrong? I feel guilty if I haven’t written in a while but I’m good at riding the guilt. Yet if an idea comes to me and then disappears, as is often the case, it annoys me. It’s like a dream you wake from and, for a moment, can remember it vividly, then it’s gone. You grasp at those wisps of recollection but they’re always just out of reach and it frustrates me when that happens.
Then there’s those times when creativity does burst out of me. Perhaps it’s the build-up of guilt that erupts creating a pyroclastic flow of ideas hurtling towards blank page. Liken it to an artist who splatters paint randomly on a canvas; unplanned and random, the words tumbling onto the page, vying for position, for supremacy.
I have to accept that this is the way it is, that’s the way I write. Perhaps after my death, people will say, “He was quite a good writer, shame he didn’t write that novel …
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC