Tuesday, April 28, 2009

tuesday

if i write my thoughts

as fast as it takes me to think them

without paying any attention to capitalization

and without speaking out loud to hear what my lines sound like,

and if i enjamb

and insert pause in

awkward place

s,

does that make me less of a writer

poet

emotionalist

me?

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I'm going through some things right now; some emotional and mental changes, so forgive me as I run the ideas of new ideas by you to see what you think... well, not really, because a lot of people read blogs as I do--silently and without commenting. Sometimes, I just don't know what to say anyway.

There are a lot of things I think right now. I don't know how long I will think these things, and I'm not sure how these things will change and manifest themselves. But I think I'm going to stop classifying myself as a writer/poet, only because it suggests a certain level of mastery, skill, or use of things I hate, like Iambic pentameter. (The suggestion of mastery or skill, in my opinion, despite having taken a Masterclass in poetry as well as two poetry seminars while @ UF, is mere illusion--the skill held by "poets" is only so because someone else has deemed it so.)

I am still a writer/poet, but not as esoterically so. I write about the same ol' shit that I'm sure you can identify with--love, the loss of it, and the misfire of it. And everything that falls in between.

I don't know how I feel about love/romance/dating/relationships/sex/marriage right now. Good thing I'm a singles freelance writer, or I'd be in trouble. (I knew what I was doing with that title.) And people say that all the time (oh, I hate dating right now) and then meet someone and they throw all that shit out the window. I legitimately am not sure how I feel about that (the long sentence with slashes in it) right now. Besides "I can't take it anymore." I don't think I've ever quite felt this way before.

John Donne said, "No man is an island." Well, call me Hispaniola, baby, because I am an island right now.
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my thoughts fly from rapidly typing fingers

the way tears slide down the face

in the darkness of a car ride home,

encouraged by a song on the radio

that's just all too real

for you to be singing

at the next red light.

you give good, love to me
baby...
so good, take this heart of mine
into your hands,
you give good love, to me
it's never, too much,
baby, you give good love...

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