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Literature Text
lost in the viscous streaks of oil and pigment
washed over with ink
bristles scratching my paperskin
Hello? Is anyone there?
Can’t you see that my paper is torn?
indigo/pthalo and cadmium yellow; the language of the eyes, the language of the heart
spatter brush with iron oxide
look too close, the whole is lost
all you see is brushstrokes, little swirls of paint, signs and portents
I see
[ blood streaming smooth as sex, addictions to death and love and oblivion ]
[ a woman staring into the sky covered in bile and blood ]
you do not see
my impressionistic message
my life’s balance
precarious, suspended, bound in silken ropes
like a desperate lover crying for her master
“I want to help you,” you say
feeling with your hands and not with your heart
“I want to protect you,” “Keep you safe.”
words yellowing like an old Rembrandt, falling into decay, the
[ sick twist of guts spilling stench of dying, the falling kicking screaming ] inner turmoil
tears bright as cerulean,
you reach out your hand and don’t see when you grab and twist
you took my flesh and smeared it with my palette knife,
[ do you want me? do you need me? can I help you? ]
I long to shed my paperskin in coils of scars and forgotten projects
[ sluice and mist, my spirit pours through my mouth nose ears eyes and ] uphill waterfall
when will you let go again?
washed over with ink
bristles scratching my paperskin
Hello? Is anyone there?
Can’t you see that my paper is torn?
indigo/pthalo and cadmium yellow; the language of the eyes, the language of the heart
spatter brush with iron oxide
look too close, the whole is lost
all you see is brushstrokes, little swirls of paint, signs and portents
I see
[ blood streaming smooth as sex, addictions to death and love and oblivion ]
[ a woman staring into the sky covered in bile and blood ]
you do not see
my impressionistic message
my life’s balance
precarious, suspended, bound in silken ropes
like a desperate lover crying for her master
“I want to help you,” you say
feeling with your hands and not with your heart
“I want to protect you,” “Keep you safe.”
words yellowing like an old Rembrandt, falling into decay, the
[ sick twist of guts spilling stench of dying, the falling kicking screaming ] inner turmoil
tears bright as cerulean,
you reach out your hand and don’t see when you grab and twist
you took my flesh and smeared it with my palette knife,
[ do you want me? do you need me? can I help you? ]
I long to shed my paperskin in coils of scars and forgotten projects
[ sluice and mist, my spirit pours through my mouth nose ears eyes and ] uphill waterfall
when will you let go again?
Literature
Distance love
Hey there stranger
at the other end of this conversation.
I told you to go and look for love somewhere else.
I told you to stay positive and not feel guilty.
Why did you stay~?
Hey there friend
at the other end.
Didn't I tell you I need physical touch~?
And didn't I tell you to fall out of love~?
Why did I stay~?
Hey there crush...
slowly making me blush.
Why are you so perfect but yet so imperfect~?
How did you see past my flaws and still love me~?
Why did we stay~?
Hey there... lover
there is more to discover...
Why did I fall in love with you~?
Why does you God make it so hard for us~?
When will you come~?
Hey there boyfriend
Literature
Love
Literature
My Promises To You
I promise to always love you
Today and every day that follows
I am handing you my heart
May it go wherever yours goes
I promise to never leave you
I will stand forever by your side
There's nothing that can break us
When our hearts are intertwined
I promise that in our dying days
When nothing is as it was before
Not only will I still love you
I will love you even more
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Well... it's been a while. I haven't been able to write for the last half-year, plus. The sad thing is that I had to fall back into all my old bad habits that I had thought I had kicked to write, and it's essentially the same thing I always write. I have other projects in mind, but on the whole, I just can't bring myself to work on them. To be quite honest, I am not well. Not well at all. I was getting better, but tripped on my indecision, and I don't want to get back up again. I wonder if I'd even bother if I didn't believe in reincarnation? (Part of reincarnation is repetition; if you don't get it right this time, you'll have to try again next time. That's why people aim to escape the cycle as opposed to embracing it like it's immortality.)
I'm lonely. It feels like I have no one, have nothing inside of me but the pain of being used. Which I'm sure from the outside sounds like nonsense. But my heart doesn't know what my head does, and the words die in my throat every time I try to say them. So many moments have passed in silence because I just couldn't speak, it's getting to be discouraging. I moved away from my school town, back in with my parents to save money and find a better job. But it was at the expense of my progress. I don't think that I made the right decision, but it's been made. I can only make the best of it, right?
Anyway, this piece. The individual of many of my poems has resurfaced yet again, big surprise. Despite my resolution to leave him in the past, I gave in when he said he wanted to help me get better. I know in my head that he can't, essentially by definition. He is emblematic of my problems, therefor inexorably tied to them and a part of them. But my loneliness got the better of me. I've only got two friends in this whole area, and he is the only one who I can reasonably spend time with (the other has a lot of problems getting out of the house like I do, and transportation is an issue.) I guess he's the lesser of the two evils I face; utter loneliness or continual challenge to my sense of self. When I'm lonely I've got no one to temper my raging emotions. At least I can fight back with him, and I know he's ultimately good-intentioned. He just doesn't know what I know.
So I guess I wanted to write about that sense of not-knowing. I feel like he sees me like a person looks at an impressionistic painting from close up. You see the strokes, the gashes in the paint, the technique, and it feels like you understand it intimately. But impressionism is something you look at from far away, to see the whole thing and understand how it all fits together. Perhaps the best place to be is fluid, to be able to look from both close up and far away. I only see from far away. Instead of helping each other come to a better understanding about the whole, we spend all our time wondering why the other party just doesn't get it.
So far as I can see, he's not truly interested in helping me. He wants to, but doesn't know how, and hasn't bothered to find out. That he only ever seems to appear when he needs support has not been lost by me is suspicious. But then again, I assume that as my job. I don't find myself worth helping but will put everything aside to help someone else. How can I blame someone for needing a shoulder and coming to me when that's who I want to be, but am just unstable right now? Besides, for all my insistence that he just doesn't get it, clearly I'm not all that much further ahead.
Anyway, this is getting a bit too "myspace" for my likings. I hope you enjoyed my piece.
I'm lonely. It feels like I have no one, have nothing inside of me but the pain of being used. Which I'm sure from the outside sounds like nonsense. But my heart doesn't know what my head does, and the words die in my throat every time I try to say them. So many moments have passed in silence because I just couldn't speak, it's getting to be discouraging. I moved away from my school town, back in with my parents to save money and find a better job. But it was at the expense of my progress. I don't think that I made the right decision, but it's been made. I can only make the best of it, right?
Anyway, this piece. The individual of many of my poems has resurfaced yet again, big surprise. Despite my resolution to leave him in the past, I gave in when he said he wanted to help me get better. I know in my head that he can't, essentially by definition. He is emblematic of my problems, therefor inexorably tied to them and a part of them. But my loneliness got the better of me. I've only got two friends in this whole area, and he is the only one who I can reasonably spend time with (the other has a lot of problems getting out of the house like I do, and transportation is an issue.) I guess he's the lesser of the two evils I face; utter loneliness or continual challenge to my sense of self. When I'm lonely I've got no one to temper my raging emotions. At least I can fight back with him, and I know he's ultimately good-intentioned. He just doesn't know what I know.
So I guess I wanted to write about that sense of not-knowing. I feel like he sees me like a person looks at an impressionistic painting from close up. You see the strokes, the gashes in the paint, the technique, and it feels like you understand it intimately. But impressionism is something you look at from far away, to see the whole thing and understand how it all fits together. Perhaps the best place to be is fluid, to be able to look from both close up and far away. I only see from far away. Instead of helping each other come to a better understanding about the whole, we spend all our time wondering why the other party just doesn't get it.
So far as I can see, he's not truly interested in helping me. He wants to, but doesn't know how, and hasn't bothered to find out. That he only ever seems to appear when he needs support has not been lost by me is suspicious. But then again, I assume that as my job. I don't find myself worth helping but will put everything aside to help someone else. How can I blame someone for needing a shoulder and coming to me when that's who I want to be, but am just unstable right now? Besides, for all my insistence that he just doesn't get it, clearly I'm not all that much further ahead.
Anyway, this is getting a bit too "myspace" for my likings. I hope you enjoyed my piece.
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Comments7
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It doesn't sound like you've stepped back at all. 
Going back to old habits can be frustrating, but it sounds to me like you have enough perspective on the situation not to do anything you know will be ultimately harmful. Perspective changes a lot.
I really, really love this piece though. I love the colours and shapes - big, swirling gobs of dark yellow, steaks of blue. I get a stronger image of this poem as a painting than anything else, and that's pretty darn cool. But at the same time, it's got all those great sensual moments that you always have, the silken ropes, hot blood, etc. etc. It has been a while, but it doesn't look like you've lost anything from my side.
Going back to old habits can be frustrating, but it sounds to me like you have enough perspective on the situation not to do anything you know will be ultimately harmful. Perspective changes a lot. I really, really love this piece though. I love the colours and shapes - big, swirling gobs of dark yellow, steaks of blue. I get a stronger image of this poem as a painting than anything else, and that's pretty darn cool. But at the same time, it's got all those great sensual moments that you always have, the silken ropes, hot blood, etc. etc. It has been a while, but it doesn't look like you've lost anything from my side.