Post #2

I love poetry more than words than can say. Which is irony in its most poetic form. The magical way a poet uses WORDS and turns them into something that can hardly be described with words. If I say a poem is beautiful, maybe that will change the meaning of the poem. For years I've heard of "The Raven" but had not really read it until the other day. I'd heard how haunting it was... and perhaps because I was looking for that that is not what I found.

You can derive so many meanings from a poem by the way you read... aloud or silently... quickly or taking each word slowly... read a sentence and STOP and read another, etc... or read and let the words sink into you in their own way. Read it and wait to see how you feel. That is my favorite way.

I've thought about this a lot over the past while. And how I get ideas at the most inconvenient times. When I'm driving is a big one. Another is vacuuming. Two things that have really nothing in common other than that they are pretty mindless tasks. It's disturbing that I consider driving mindlessly to be okay. Listen to me children; it is NOT.

I think that if I used a poetic voice that I could get the weirdness out of me and perhaps understand myself a little better. Cuz I am a stranger to myself at times. Is this common? Just so you know, I am NOT a poet. I want you to know that I KNOW this. Loving poetry and be any good at creating such are not the same thing.

Good thing I made that perfectly clear.

Wow the thoughts I had while driving earlier today, well, they were EPIC. And NOW they are buried. Do they bury themselves, or do I?

I read that poetry takes two (or more) different thoughts and weaves them together into one. Or it can anyway. There's no way to pin down poetry to one single definition or style or meaning.

But that thought speaks to me. I don't see things as black and white, I don't make decisions well, I don't stand by my convictions as I probably should. I'm wishy washy. Why else would I have about 8 blogs sitting around? But at the same time, I feel things so surely and deeply that I can't breathe. (Okay, obviously, I am breathing, but there are times that I have to stop and think about the process. I do not kid.)

Unawares to anyone my chest stills
one hand of tiny fingers grips my thoughts
the other my heart
you're taking life too fast is what
I think I'm being told yet
I know the moment will be lost
the treasure which sparkles and beckons
is going to walk out the door and
leave me alone
and I will remember then that I needed to seize the moment
and...
that is why I forget to breathe.


The awesomeness of an unknown blog is so awesome. My thought process is immature, and I'm too old to think that way. But Yo. I can think any which way I want here. Twisted.