"Agnostics don't assume they know that there's nothing, but we don't assume we know there's something. we just accept we don't know."
No.
You're just an atheist without balls.
No.
You're just an atheist without balls.
Jun 26, 2010
Conflicted
A little move I picked up from you, my dear;
if I ignore it long enough, maybe the whole issue will just go away.
if I ignore it long enough, maybe the whole issue will just go away.
Jun 18, 2010
"He won't be back for another 12 hours. OMG I miss him so much!"
no.
don't you dare bastardize the meaning of that phrase with your trivial little childish whining. you have no fucking idea what it's like to miss someone. no idea. you don't have a clue what it's like to be only connected by a phone line. you don't know how it feels to wake up every morning (alone, once again) and realize you had only dreamed that they were beside you last night.
when have you resigned after too many unanswered rings? how close was it to dawn when your tiredness overwhelmed your worry and finally let your eyes close?
when was the last time you had to stare at a computer screen and how many sobs did you let escape before the pixels finally calmed you down in lieu of a simple hug?
you can't possibly comprehend all the fear and insecurity and misunderstandings and assumptions and the sad, sad mutual loneliness captured by the silence exchanged through the telephone receiver -- the constant ringing of that too-familiar sound that fills your head and always seems to seep out the pores of your skin, untouched for days weeks months
you
have no
idea.
don't you dare act as if some quantifiable amount of hours away from the love of your life -- the reason you breathe, you smile, you sing (well, you used to) -- is the most unbearable thing in the world.
you don't know.
you just really don't know.
but be glad that you probably never will.
"I miss you already!!!"
shut the fuck up.
you don't know how it feels to miss someone so strongly every waking (i say waking because there is never restful sleep alone) moment. to miss them so frequently and so passionately that even in the short periods of time when they're with you -- because that awful empty feeling has lived inside your little heart for so long, expanding so tremendously to create a knot of contiguity with solitude -- you could never,
ever be close enough to them
to melt it away.
don't you dare bastardize the meaning of that phrase with your trivial little childish whining. you have no fucking idea what it's like to miss someone. no idea. you don't have a clue what it's like to be only connected by a phone line. you don't know how it feels to wake up every morning (alone, once again) and realize you had only dreamed that they were beside you last night.
when have you resigned after too many unanswered rings? how close was it to dawn when your tiredness overwhelmed your worry and finally let your eyes close?
when was the last time you had to stare at a computer screen and how many sobs did you let escape before the pixels finally calmed you down in lieu of a simple hug?
you can't possibly comprehend all the fear and insecurity and misunderstandings and assumptions and the sad, sad mutual loneliness captured by the silence exchanged through the telephone receiver -- the constant ringing of that too-familiar sound that fills your head and always seems to seep out the pores of your skin, untouched for days weeks months
you
have no
idea.
don't you dare act as if some quantifiable amount of hours away from the love of your life -- the reason you breathe, you smile, you sing (well, you used to) -- is the most unbearable thing in the world.
you don't know.
you just really don't know.
but be glad that you probably never will.
"I miss you already!!!"
shut the fuck up.
you don't know how it feels to miss someone so strongly every waking (i say waking because there is never restful sleep alone) moment. to miss them so frequently and so passionately that even in the short periods of time when they're with you -- because that awful empty feeling has lived inside your little heart for so long, expanding so tremendously to create a knot of contiguity with solitude -- you could never,
ever be close enough to them
to melt it away.
Jun 16, 2010
(my turn now)
i am waiting
waiting.
what am i waiting for?
(my turn now)
love trusting
love honest
love love love love i have spent so
i have spent oh-so long
chasing you
chasing your shadow
even when I can't/don't/won't
see the sun
waiting.
what am i waiting for?
(my turn now)
i am waiting for love to fall into my lap.
love
free
from jealousy or pride
unbearable distance
and striped bowls smashed against the wall.
love trusting
love honest
love love love love i have spent so
i have spent oh-so long
chasing you
chasing your shadow
even when I can't/don't/won't
see the sun
Old school stuff
off Insipid
you will never mean anything to me--my saviour you will never be.
the attempts you made to fix this mess
arose a slow, sickening, self-regress
can't you ever comprehend?
don't reach out again.
Jun 15, 2010
Restless
I'm officially done with classes for the school year. So I should be less stressed, right? Summer's great, right?
Maybe I just need more time to fall into summer mode.
Maybe the term's still got me down a bit, maybe I'm kinda worried.
Why am I not happy yet?
Maybe I just need more time to fall into summer mode.
Maybe the term's still got me down a bit, maybe I'm kinda worried.
Why am I not happy yet?
Jun 1, 2010
Ars Poetica
(c’mon)
muse for hire
uninspired?
when you have an idea, run with it.
(let’s just make a run for it)
take a concept and
(don't look back)
drag it out, carry it along,
coax it with semicolons and em dashes
you hold complete control over language,
bend conventionality and forms to your will
(don't you like the way
you/i/we/they
wrap(s) around
your/my/their
finger?)
make the text convey
what you want it to say
the means justify the ending
so forget what you have been told---
for poetry is not putting
the square block in the circle hole
and although the words should sound from your lips
just as they flow from your pen
a thought is worth more
than the vulgarity of speech.
embellish it, exaggerate
and most of all—create
ars poetica, first draft: 750 scribbles
(c’mon)
muse for hire
uninspired?
all i need from you, Erato, are your pretty words Thalia, just lend me all your exclamation marks and Melpomene and i will ring like Polyhymnia's verses twirling letters like Terpsichore that shine bright in Urania's sky
when you have an idea, run with it.
(let’s just make a run for it)
take a concept and
(don't look back)
drag it out, carry it along, coax it out with semicolons and em dashes
you hold complete control over language, bend conventionality and forms to your will (don't you like the way they/i/you wrap(s) around your/my/their finger?) make the text convey what you want it to say
the means justify the ending so forget what you have been told—
for poetry is not putting the square block in the circle hole
and although the words should sound from your lips just as they flow from your pen
a thought is worth more than the vulgarity of speech
embellish it, exaggerate and most of all—create
when i write, it's all at once -- it's a deliberate attempt to make something tangible from the abstract
and i like it to be pretty
i like it to be oh-so-pretty.
words, oh, words
will never want to leave the page
they belong there, they're intended, it's all intentional, it's all meant to be you are creating reality, you are creating today you are creating tomorrow, you are creating yesterday
why stop there?
why stop there?
such a simple design
why?
write with a purpose but don't you dare stick to it go with the flow let the current of inspiration carry you carry you to the way the stanzas will cascade down your sheet of paper
be it lined, blank, hotel, recycled, perforated, borrowed
it's your sheet of paper
it's your canvas
hidden in your poem's combination of letters spaces and punctuation is the feeling you have when you write it
be vague, be specific, be whatever it takes to take your idea and run with it be alone with just your thoughts and in the silence, create create
you're making something out of nothing but in all reality, it's everything poetry, to me, is everything. i breathe it, seethe it, bleed it
maybe that's why it's so hard for me to write about my own writing process
it just comes naturally i have a thought i think my thought i write i polish i finish
revising, i hate revising why must art be subjected to this "correcting?" who could tell davinci to put a smile on the Mona Lisa? who could tell picasso there's something wrong with his images?
it seems to me so stuffy, so snobby, so pretentious i can hardly stand it it's just depressing, really. Holden would certainly agree. does everything really need to be improved? i like my poetry the way it is -- that's why i created it this way. i don't do drafts. drafts are just unfinished works to me if i don't like what i have as a "draft," i will scrap it completely and start anew
drafts i don't do drafts. they're an unnecessary step in the process from start to finish and that's what you want to get to, isn't it?
you're just building the bridges to get to where you want to be (you can burn them later if you'd like) so what if one bridge is flimsy, so what if another isn't as pretty
oh but it should all be pretty it's art art is pretty
at least when i create it because i want it that way i like it pretty, so i make it so there's simply no other explanation i have no other reasoning other than the fact that i like pretty words. i want my poetry to be pretty. so i make it pretty. it can deal with ugly images and ugly ideas but them poem itself will be oh-so-pretty it will be the golden child the parents carry along with them and beam with pride whenever others say "what a pretty little thing," what a a pretty little thing.
it is for no other reason than because i want it to be.
and i think—oh fuck it, i know—that's good enough for me
i don't know how to write an ars poetica and i don't know what the hell i'm doing to do for this but it's got me thinking about my writing process more than Crumb's documentary sure did.
muse for hire
uninspired?
all i need from you, Erato, are your pretty words Thalia, just lend me all your exclamation marks and Melpomene and i will ring like Polyhymnia's verses twirling letters like Terpsichore that shine bright in Urania's sky
when you have an idea, run with it.
(let’s just make a run for it)
take a concept and
(don't look back)
drag it out, carry it along, coax it out with semicolons and em dashes
you hold complete control over language, bend conventionality and forms to your will (don't you like the way they/i/you wrap(s) around your/my/their finger?) make the text convey what you want it to say
the means justify the ending so forget what you have been told—
for poetry is not putting the square block in the circle hole
and although the words should sound from your lips just as they flow from your pen
a thought is worth more than the vulgarity of speech
embellish it, exaggerate and most of all—create
when i write, it's all at once -- it's a deliberate attempt to make something tangible from the abstract
and i like it to be pretty
i like it to be oh-so-pretty.
words, oh, words
will never want to leave the page
they belong there, they're intended, it's all intentional, it's all meant to be you are creating reality, you are creating today you are creating tomorrow, you are creating yesterday
why stop there?
why stop there?
such a simple design
why?
write with a purpose but don't you dare stick to it go with the flow let the current of inspiration carry you carry you to the way the stanzas will cascade down your sheet of paper
be it lined, blank, hotel, recycled, perforated, borrowed
it's your sheet of paper
it's your canvas
hidden in your poem's combination of letters spaces and punctuation is the feeling you have when you write it
be vague, be specific, be whatever it takes to take your idea and run with it be alone with just your thoughts and in the silence, create create
you're making something out of nothing but in all reality, it's everything poetry, to me, is everything. i breathe it, seethe it, bleed it
maybe that's why it's so hard for me to write about my own writing process
it just comes naturally i have a thought i think my thought i write i polish i finish
revising, i hate revising why must art be subjected to this "correcting?" who could tell davinci to put a smile on the Mona Lisa? who could tell picasso there's something wrong with his images?
it seems to me so stuffy, so snobby, so pretentious i can hardly stand it it's just depressing, really. Holden would certainly agree. does everything really need to be improved? i like my poetry the way it is -- that's why i created it this way. i don't do drafts. drafts are just unfinished works to me if i don't like what i have as a "draft," i will scrap it completely and start anew
drafts i don't do drafts. they're an unnecessary step in the process from start to finish and that's what you want to get to, isn't it?
you're just building the bridges to get to where you want to be (you can burn them later if you'd like) so what if one bridge is flimsy, so what if another isn't as pretty
oh but it should all be pretty it's art art is pretty
at least when i create it because i want it that way i like it pretty, so i make it so there's simply no other explanation i have no other reasoning other than the fact that i like pretty words. i want my poetry to be pretty. so i make it pretty. it can deal with ugly images and ugly ideas but them poem itself will be oh-so-pretty it will be the golden child the parents carry along with them and beam with pride whenever others say "what a pretty little thing," what a a pretty little thing.
it is for no other reason than because i want it to be.
and i think—oh fuck it, i know—that's good enough for me
i don't know how to write an ars poetica and i don't know what the hell i'm doing to do for this but it's got me thinking about my writing process more than Crumb's documentary sure did.
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