I have to say that it felt much more like a poem rather than prose but that's only my own personal appreciation.
The first and second part seems to be rather austere, in my view. Probably, you were just setting the tone for what was to come. Though part three left me open - mouthed.
I don't exactly know what you meant by
"Fully carved the seasons on my heart"
To me, you appear to be saying that you did not have enough inspiration at the time to write about what was troubling you or about the matters you wanted to depict on your writing.
"The template's missing
and the last note of the song is done"
The last two lines are rather misleading. On one hand, I can see how you might be wondering about doing away with yourself or possibly pondering over the end of a journey. On the other hand, you did not write a full stop right at the very end which unavoidably leads me to believe that you have something else to say. It also tells that this piece is not quite finished or even that the aforesaid trip is not yet concluded....
I have to admit that the first two times I read this write I keep reading "contemplate" instead of "template." I guess that that was what my mind wanted to see ... when I actually wised to the fact that the word was the former I got lost coz I just don't really know what you could possibly be saying through it.... I surmise that my eyes only see the easy way out and avoid difficulties LOL....
One last thing would be to point out that, to my mind, this gives out a slight tinge of romanticism particularly when it comes the ending.-
The line neither angst nor art dripped from my fists was especially effective I think. It's interesting to think of angst and art as diametrically opposed. Which is how this line made me think anyway. So often we think of them as one almost. Where there's angst there's art? Seems like the poet here is lamenting the loss of his passion. Perhaps the angst is better than nothing at all.
Sounds like soemone who actually has quite a lot to say is saying he has nothing left to say. Or maybe I'm just crazy.
the day I held a pen
to my head and
pulled the trigger
i find that i only write once a month now. some months it may be twice. some months maybe not at all. and it doesnt worry me. i know when i have to write something coz i get twitchy and restless and have lines i have collected over the month buzzing round trying to make connections like lines in a telephone exchange.
but if sitting round and think "oh... maybe ill write something" while there are no buzzing connections trying to be made... nothing happens. pen in hand i can sit for hours and nothing happens.
writing can be fatal though... it really can.
i like this piece bill.
i came to your page looking for the second installment of your monologue thing but found this instead.
the end of this piece is perfect
makes me think writers block...
I really like this the opening - very imaginative but I think the 'not even blood' in the second seems like you are explaining your own metaphor and is a weaker line. Also, I'm not convinced about the longer lines in the last. I think you could break this into two stanzas.
Sounds like someone frustrated with his own writing. Thatís good. It makes us stretch, reach, experiment. I certainly hope the last note is not done. Iím certain there is more Ė much more Ė music in there, and Iím certain it will run, not drip, out over time.
Wonderful metaphors in the first 2 strophes, and a great wrap-up in the 3rd.