Love is the little things. Like diamonds.

I just reread a line I wrote

A year or two ago.

It’s beautiful and sad that it was me

And that I am now who I am

And that now it was three.

#11 Walk

At four o’clock it’s time to walk the line.

With bag on back I formulate a rhyme;

Now right in front, now left behind, the two

Together form one regular to view.

I step it through and over and again,

I feel each stress and deal with every strain;

Now half an hour gone, it feels like less –

It feels like more but this is my address.

#10 For Sale

A ‘For Sale’ sign is nailed outside my house.

It somehow made its way deep into wall,

And hammered there when I must have been out,

It cracks bricks here and acts like part of all.

The lights inside are out when I approach.

I swear it’s not the same, but yet my key

Still fits and clicks and turns the lock; I broach

My home, and look around for what to see.

I can still find the Playstation inside,

But this urge I once held I am without.

I gaze over my book to dark and find

A reflective face, surrounded by a house.

I have no other place to go, and won’t –

I live here still, I know, but yet I don’t.

#9.5 On Novels and Creativity - Dear Matthew

A novel experience
deliriant you write
you’re right, delirious
your plight, a great
way to pass the time
express yourself
without the rhyme
it’s easy, spell check
to please me
and word count
it’ll make for good reading
and a lot of people read ‘em
because it’s easy
like I mentioned
doesn’t tax or lead
to mental tension
but suspense and drama
you make indeed!
It takes a keen mind -
like yours, of course -
to create.

#9 Deprivation

I’m slightly too awake for this to make no sense which is a shame as I can’t trust myself to be constructive but I cannot let my subconscious flow unhindered either. Where dreams and reality blur is where I’d like to be and find my mind roaming around within this limbo where all is possible and nothing is certain and experiences are built on references to previous experiences which may have never happened. I can neither intellectualise anything as I simply have not the will or force or energy so similar this feels to how I would imagine a life fuelled by addiction where time loses track of itself and ceases to really exist being a subjective concept and all (just ask Einstein, honest) And yet I refuse to sleep and break the pattern I am forming caring not for this day I’m wasting or this subhuman level I’m inhabiting or the things I have to do for all I can is stare and stare I do and am and shall until this dreamworld ends at nothing in particular I focus and in fact the act of staring is default, there is nothing to see.

#8 Connie

feelingsosublime:

thinkingoften:

A critic had remarked that if I had selected another method of composition and taken a little more trouble the tale could have been told in about two hundred pages.  I confess I do not perceive exactly the bearings of such criticism or even the use of such a remark.  No doubt that by selecting a certain method and taking great pains the whole story might have been written out on a cigarette paper.  For that matter, the whole history of mankind could be written thus if only approached with sufficient detachment.  The history of men on this earth since the beginning of ages may be resumed in the one phrase of infinite poignancy: They were born, they suffered, they died…  Yet it is a great tale!  But in the infinitely minute stories about men and women it is my lot on earth to narrate I am not capable of such detachment.

He coulda said that in about 3 lines.

(godie)

wittywittwittywittywitty

I did lol, iwbh.

#8 Connie

A critic had remarked that if I had selected another method of composition and taken a little more trouble the tale could have been told in about two hundred pages.  I confess I do not perceive exactly the bearings of such criticism or even the use of such a remark.  No doubt that by selecting a certain method and taking great pains the whole story might have been written out on a cigarette paper.  For that matter, the whole history of mankind could be written thus if only approached with sufficient detachment.  The history of men on this earth since the beginning of ages may be resumed in the one phrase of infinite poignancy: They were born, they suffered, they died…  Yet it is a great tale!  But in the infinitely minute stories about men and women it is my lot on earth to narrate I am not capable of such detachment.