Nights and Poetry

Grey, murky thick sky surrounds my being
In this frosted air I drive
Searing through the haze, trying to awaken
My listless bloodshot eyes.

The dark it still creeps ahead
As the sun begins it's climb behind
I feel like I'm slowly heading
For that field of dying light

I cannot hault the flow of time
And instead I reveal in it's passing
Living through the ebbs and flows
Grasping fourth for hidden meaning
Finding poetry in every word I speak
And every word I mean with such heavy weight.

My words follow no form
Just a series of excrements
That are meant to show my brilliance
But only show the lack.
This is my poetry.

Impulse.

Impulse triggers impulse
And the mind begins to wake
The sparks that set my brain to work
Are firing.

Sensory inputs tell me what I see
And the fractured image upturned
Is reversed so it makes sense to me

Memories, stories set in faulty images
Play on repeat. Never ceasing, never sleep.
My mornings are this routine.
And these impulses are firing.

Ha Bitches!

That's right, December is my productive month apparently. I suppose this is a good thing considering I'm going to be a writing major at U of M this spring. Going into both poetry and fiction, so I'll need to whip my fiction into shape. And I'll work on that shortly. No more for tonight however, I'm in desperate need for sleep.

Untitled

Pacing myself- it's all in the distance
That I put myself away from that [passiveness]
Of my past self. I am new again. [Or so I think]

I am done with lying [except with every breath]
Poetry- it's all in the words that I don't mean
The expanse of words [of which I could never need]

I am done with the truth [I never had it anyway]
Desperate, desolate, and despairing
Life- it's all in the time we spend
And time I never really had.

I'm not sure about this piece, for a variety of reasons. I'm not sure if I like it first off. It's strange, and I'm not sure if it fits well with me. Another reason being, I'm not sure what it means haha. But oh well, here it is.

Died.

I died. So it's been said.
The day I laid my head down for that restful sleep.
And one that I would never wish to repeat, Nor would I want to.
I died. And I guess they were right.

The Painter

My back, it is heavy
And my thoughts are troubled and stark
Yet I find solace in the stroke of the brush
I am a painter. And these are my works

The brush moves back and forth
Leaving beauty in it's wake
A springboard of colors, I hold in my hand
They urge for a canvas, and my hand as a vessel
They find their way there.

I can create something you have never seen
I can change what you already know
I can move your very soul
I am a painter. And these are my works.

Dark and Day

The sky is split with dark and day
And I am speeding between
Running from the murk and glum
That has followed me this way
With it's reaching fingers of
Barely tangible fear
It pushes away the sunshine
And any joy to be found from there
And I am speeding between
Fighting to reach that cloudless blue
Where the world becomes clearer
And my tranquility renewed
The world it shines!
The trees, their dead limbs beckon
Without nary a sallow thought
And in their spindly arms
I find comfort and support
And I am speeding between
The road it stretches straight ahead
And cars they trudge along
My companions on this thoughtless drive
It's meaning I hold deep
For in this very moment
All my thoughts, they sleep.
And I am speeding between.

(This is a piece about a fall day I had recently were I spent miles driving down straight highway with storm clouds on my back and the sunny skies in front of me. It was truly a beautiful image. So I sought to show it justice. I failed.)

I win.

I posted four things in one night. I think that makes up for a months lapse of anything creative on this page. I'm going to work on this more, seeing as soon I will have much more free time and I will possibly be needing this work in the future.

An attempt at fiction

So I'm attempting fiction. We'll see how this goes. This story will probably continue through many posts.

I am not sleeping again. The thought is a pervasive one. Clinging to my consciousness with the tenacity of a remora. It also bears no mention, as one were to only look at the sallow skin and turbulent eyes to realize that the world of dreams and fantasy has long since escaped my tenuous grasp. Who am I? That's not really important. But then again nothing is really important. I'd rather refrain from a pseudo-philisophical tangent so I'll continue if you'd let me. I live in a city, what city doesn't matter. It's a big one, full of tall buildings that scratch at the sky as if a virtual representation of humanity trying to tackle God. Why, you probably wonder at this point why I'm crazy. If you were sleeping as little as I was then you probably would be in the same state as I now would you? Anyway, I will begin my story now.

We start on a day completely unremarkable from the next, or the one that preceded it. I am sitting in a room. A room known as the living room in common society, and applicable in more ways then most with me. Since I never sleep I never make it to my "bedroom" and instead spend the nights meandering about my shitty apartment in the attempts to drown my body with exercise to the point of sleep. But alas, this has yet to happen. Why can't I sleep you might ask? That's not important. Much of this story is not important, but at the same time it is of much importance. Confused yet? I certainly am. Hopefully with time things will become clearer, more distinct, and I can find some usefulness for this static complacency.

(This is just the first couple paragraphs, an intro if you will, to a topic I came up with a few years back about a man who can't sleep and the effects on his psyche. I thought it would be an interesting short story at least and I intend on working on for as long as I can.)

A place at the table.

Read on, brave reader, read on!
Though I should not have right to speak
And my words simply creak about the page
I fancy myself something more
Than some caustic intellectual
Whose words bring nothing
To an already crowded table
Which is filled to the cracking
With words half muttered in fallacy
And with deliberate deceit
With rambled wax spirituals
And towers of shaking confidence
I speak as if the best of them
Had given me their greatest pen
And planted the thought
That I could be a writer
Even though every shred
Points to the fact I'm not.
Read on, brave reader, read on!

(This is...strange. I'm not entirely sure how I came up with this, it just kind of sprang out. Anyway, I'd perceive it as a letter to all those out there who read my shit-tastic writing. So in that respect, you are quite brave.)

Old Man

How old are you now?

Still in your quiet tomb

You shudder to speak

Though the world wears heavy

On your sholders.

Time is measured in the words you speak

And it's dragged on through the years

We count life through our company

And yours has passed away

I cannot yet see myself

And though I may yet try

All I see is a broken man

Through sad, pathetic eyes. 

Failure.

The clock it chimes with untold certainty
And I don't have time to listen
Breath I tell myself,
Just breath

I'm stationary,
And my heart is pacing back and forth
Tapping to a rhythm much too fast to follow
And I blindly run behind

I'm starting to realize I'll never make it
And my heart is slowing down
But most of all
I'm learning to Breath

(Yeah this is rather shitty, but I'm experimenting and trying to expand from a simple end rhyme structure.