Name: Mejas Sullipar
Website:[ Website ]
Days Away: 5728
Life Story: A diamond in velvet
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17.24 Years 1.72 Quote:
'I want more life, fucker.'
Few More Times by k.o.malley
The East Morning by Anarius
Sweet Dreams Krispy Kremes by Krysti
Chronicles of Night: Legac by Dark_Dancer
my predator by cainboy
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The Old Ways
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well, i do appreciate the gratitude... . i shan't retype an old message, but this was in response to Storm of Bliss's comment.
indeed. competition. yes. i understand. struggle. yes.
i fight myself, and i fight alone. a shadow, mistform apparition, and nothing more. my mind is hooked up to this lyrical respirator...nothing more.
i wonder sometimes like...when i die, will i ever be heard? if not i'll be satisfied. hell-most of these folks don't know which angle to take me at. i like it. a lot.
a lot more than i do actually writing. i almost get off on it i guess you could say. i write to be misunderstood. like the image i just gave Van.
I see images, landscapes upon a stencilied canvas and i paint them. but...what happenes when the canvas sees landscapes and paints you instead?
when you lose focus and all concept of what it means to be a poet, why you began writing in the first place?
i have used poetry as an outlet for my addiction. i say that i'm an addict because i learned that no matter how long and hard you try and run away from your shadow, its always going to be there regardless.
heroine used to be my escape. even some of my closest friends don't even know this, but i have no issue sharing. perhaps it'll allow others to see the method behind the madness a bit clearer.
i replaced this habit with poetry. i didn't particularly appreciate being stranded out in washington state a few years back over a 3 year period because my wise ass decided to leave the haven my parents provided for me. running around, insulating my clothes with paper bags (brown), or newspaper to keep warm during the winter. when my own stench became unbearable, i used to sneak into hotels and bathe in their restrooms, or the local library. i used to eat breakfast with their morning crew, chill in the lobby for a couple hours, pretend like i had something to do, and walk out-bidding the hostess goodbye as i passed so she wouldn't catch on.
heh...it took them 6 months almost to catch on. i was almost arrested. that was fun, so i simply found a new sheraton inn to bathe in. in december of 02-the librarian (head) noticed that i came in every day, and never checked anything out, but would read for hours, sleep in their chairs or the restroom, and even caught me sleeping out in the front at times. at night when the newspaper guy came to drop of the paper, he caught me a couple of times and told her. so one morning when i came in-they had a large donation from the church ready, canned goods and other non parishable items.
brought tears to my eyes. they even set me up with an account, because i always stole their temporary internet access slips to log into ES, and write for hours. that's where Knowledge came from. and on that date, i stopped using. my tracks are vaguely familiar to the close eye now...3 years, 8 months, 13 days...and counting.
and that was my Black Chrysanthemum, Travincle, or other poem titles featuring a Dark Lady, Moon Sister/Lady, Rhianna, Succubi/Morrigan/Morgana...
2 years ago i closed his chapter (Knowledge). he's done, and i'm not going back to that terrible nightmare.
i've digressed a bit from my original train of thought excuse me. anyway. now for the muse...
I have this muse who...*sighs*...
i break out in cold sweats sometimes thinking about the...places my first outlet took me to. i'll sit straight up, look around...try sleeping again. toss and turn from 11-about 4 am. i'm fully aware of what's going on-and that's what scares me.
i'll write down these afterimages ingrained in my consciousness. they come out like my latest work. with absolutely no meaning whatsoever. the words...aren't even in my vocabulary. i know that i'm loquacious, but i'm not that adept.
i write them down. OUTLAW even encountered a few in that poem that weren't even WORDS. but i don't care, because they were what i remembered from the images i saw.
that was a nonsensical poem. if anyone made sense of it congrats. i told Van i'm going to see what we like to call a 'shrink'...because i need to bring some closure to this final chapter in my life once and for all.
just a lil bit of 'horticulture' behind my nitty-gritty. don't know why i'm typing all of this but oh well.
ah yes, as for the grats, well...you already know how brilliant you are, so there's no need to be flattered Alia . its just...
if you ever met her, you and her are, quite similar in a way, and shan't go into much description there. read the comment left (or both if you do so please), and perhaps you shall understand.
competition. the need to succeed. supercede my predecessor (sp). i know. unsportsmanlike and non-gentlemanly in most cases. it is the reason i write. to escape. i see writers of a much higher cliber than myself as being at a higher peak of ecstasy than I, and so i am willing to beat them verbally in order to attain their level of 'peace and safe haven'...they are able to more proficiently create images than i, or some other method, and that i must attain in order to further distance myself from my own Gehenna.
and that is my reason.
not that anyone actually cares, but *shrugs yet again*.
well, i've already taken up enough space on your page. and i do so apologize for all the nostalgia and sympathies. stream of consciousness Mind. perhaps if i changed my name to that, i might be more well-0suited for the form which i've presumed.
"Knowledge" was an older alias i had here 2 years ago.
but yes, not many poets with poetry such as I i know. i strive to be...an individual. its the only way i know how to write . many thanks.
yes i recieve entire novels and editorials. i enjoy them. gives me something to do in the down time when i'm not writing. i want my reader to GUESS at what their reading, perhaps have some vague idea, but not truely KNOW each step which lies in the darkness before them on the path to the subconscious unconscious, but to stumble through, so that each time they read a piece of mine, the subconscious unconscious journey is never the same...they are always learning something new about themselves through my writing, even if the language is a bit esoteric.
no one can duplicate me. i like it that way .
Loquacious Mind. i never knew that when i picked that name some years ago it would actually stick you know. but here i go rambling again.
i do thank you more than you could know for the comment, and i should check out a few of your works here soon. i shall be posting more...whenever my Muse gets around to it ...
glad you could find some light in my unconscious
|| Posted on 2006-10-16 00:00:00 | by Loquacious Mind - [ Reply to This ] -|
"Yeah, its pretty fab. Its reads as one, giant yawn - you big fat sloth."
... PARDON?! FAT!
Well, I never!
"... although I was expecting more of a psychadelic jabbawocky style story - dont ask me why."
|| Posted on 2006-10-15 00:00:00 | by Lacrimosa - [ Reply to This ] -|
... yeah, well....
your mum's a woman...
|| Posted on 2006-10-16 00:00:00 | by Lacrimosa - [ Reply to This ] -|
Von Django - I'm actually surprised you found this something of value. how did it go in the movie? "you can be my wingman anytime. 'no way. you can be my wingman." I didn't understand something you said about the Kilmer quote. Did you mean trash it, or keep it? I truly appreciate hearing from you my friend.
|| Posted on 2006-10-15 00:00:00 | by mick729 - [ Reply to This ] -|
This new photograph's better, at any rate...
|| Posted on 2006-10-13 00:00:00 | by Lacrimosa - [ Reply to This ] -|
... I'm not THAT scary, am I?
|| Posted on 2006-10-10 00:00:00 | by Lacrimosa - [ Reply to This ] -|