Monday

Monday morning comes and I am at it once again. A slow start, a languid awakening, and I am unresponsive to all forms of communication. I seek to progress by adding more music to my collection. I hope to one day have all the sounds that I desire, but I know (deep down) that it simply will never happen for me. Attempted Faulkner toady, but don’t think that will happen either. I have had the most blissful relaxation! Not only that, but I am becoming calmer in the core.

This week’s indulgence has left me spiritually and emotionally drained. I am through with tricking myself into a chosen state of stupor. Ironically I find that such a means quite often has the opposite effect. I’ve been calmer since you’ve left. Yet I cannot confess to actually believing the storm has passed. 

I am strong, in spite of being foolish and stubborn. But I am strong, and an unusual thinker. Therefore I cannot settle for anything less stimulating than that which I produce. Is it not harmonious and comprehensive? The feeling is once again beginning to grab me, as I hear the song for the hundredth time this week, I wish I could just start writing and these postulations could pour out of me as easily as they appear. My worst problem is that I cannot ever articulate quickly enough what it is I am trying to say. 

My time in this town is growing very thin. And though I am enjoying it as fully as my body can handle, I still feel such a need to breathe, and move. Soon I will fly to such adventures, but for now I will wash the dishes and do my laundry.

Ode to Identity

I long to be a bird, singing sweetly

The tales of life as they happen to me.

A gentle breeze my only companion

That takes me far and lulls me to my sleep.

For what a flight I have within my soul

Such as this body could never express

If only I had wings to soar it gone

To finally ease my mind and soul to rest.

Then what great music would I sing to you,

Forever haunting loud and honest tune.

Or would I be more fitting as liquor

A dark, deep fire that burns inside of you

And numbs you to the core so you forget

The ache of longing you so long to quench.

Oh let me fill the drains within your psyche

Envelop you and place your mind at ease.

Alas! I cannot bear for you to drink,

For though my love has some poisonous effect,

I could not have you then call out my name

And not recall what we have done in vain.

Instead perhaps a porcelain cup would do

Filled to the brim and always flowing up.

This poor female is cursed with all too much

Emotion of the spirit to contain

That I must have you drink and dull my sense.

I give you all my dreams and ambition

In hopes of quieting the noise within,

My thoughts pour freely with little restraint

Longing to flood the cosmos far and wide

That I will be existing in all time.

If I could be that Rosalind. She knows

How fathom deep I am in love. And yet

Though Bronte, Keats, and Dickinson themselves

Could not have kept me from cascading down.

Their words do fling my conscience back to Earth

And I can see that what I feel is true.

A poet I am not, though I have words

That cry out to be heard; I cannot let

Them simply slip away without a fight

And doubt they would go even if I tried.

How bleak it seems to not be all at once.

How cruel of Nature in seeing it fit

That all my wildness be concentrated

Into a temporary being which

I fear will be too soon to expire.

Can it be my ambitions are too high?

Perhaps the stifling calm will lock me up,

A civilized prison will have to do.

Never will I desist in my reveries

For they shall be my means of breaking free!