[03 Jun 2006 | Saturday]
 | Love letters addressed to no one, scattered in a pile of books and papers, a blank page full of writer's block. I can't believe I need a green card. I'm too cold to feel the breeze, too warm to remember her touch. Like a cigarette butt, used and black, I wither and flicker, exhausted of life. I'll speak with words I can not spell, touch with lines that have no meaning to me, and vomit my soul in clever thirteen syllable phrases for you. I'm not giving you emotion, not giving you life or genuine misery. -Shit, I hate you for this! Making me spill my soul onto paper because you needed an emotional release. You'll have me fuck your mind because my love isn't enough. My anguish and longing aren't enough. My trepidation and nervous awkwardness won't do. Memories that will haunt me forever just don't fit into your scheme of things. I need a break, a break from words. I need a taste of writer's block. ~~I just really felt this way last night. First time in a very long time. I felt all used up and extremely worn. This little poem seems to be my lament about being a poet and using language. Hating that my words and very distinct emotions become twisted and turned with ever different reader. I mostly just feel tired at this point and would like some kind of recognition.~~ |
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