What a life it must be
to feign yourself over your writing
pouring everything you ever were
into notebooks and loose leaf pages
and printed computer documents,
only to disappear from this life
never knowing if what you did
was acceptable; worthy of the effort
of ever drawing a breath.
But no complaints here, just an
observation that needed to be stated.
Always the procrastinator, the perfectionist
who can never get her thoughts together
and it shows
like the failing adhesive of a conversation
that never should have started
how unbelievably uncomfortable
an ounce of blank paper seems
as it limits the opportunity
to acquire inspiration into
competent self worth and dignity.
Thoughts sell faster than promiscuity,
never given the proper chance to contemplate.
If forced to contain yourself,
it feels like you’re gradually falling
where every sound is separate
and fresh air is as hysterical as
a temporary relief to depression.
I liked this, it has a great point to get across, the only question I have is that the first verse seems like your speaking about someone else almost as if you are envying them, but the rest of the poem seems as if your describing yourself.
I don't know, I could be misunderstanding the direction that you were going,
But that aside I really enjoyed it,
I enjoyed this piece, and just posted one that may be complimentary to it. "Hey, who are you?"
Now, I must bring to the table the concept of psychology relating to your piece. Value is never absolute, in fact, you may easily guess it's relative to the person. Therefore, value attributed to one thing by one person doesn't adhere, or at least shouldn't, to the value that other attribute it, because that person is in his own unique. In that sense lies the beauty of real poetry, and for the loss of this beauty one must simply seek acceptance. How do we observe this fact? We compromise... We can't totally be rejects and go against the entire current; it's noble but excessively stupid, and in this modern day, nobody is gutsy enough to really do it. We are to unified to stand alone, that type of thing. But ignoring the fact that this was all obvious, I'm hoping your first stanza was sarcastic.... Because searching for an answer like that is as meaningless as searching for God in an antinucleon... At least speaking on the same level as God.. The question remains... When a writer writes a book, a story, he has a plan, but by the end of his story he finds himself guided by his story, not guiding his story... So for those impulsive poets out there... Once written, does the meaning nestle itself in the sublime twilight of our subconsciousness or do we really know it? Do we really understand it? Have we given our poetry meaning, or has it given us meaning? Pathetic when you think about it... Thoughts may sell quicker than promiscuity only because they last longer than false love. Ideas will always be carried on by humanity; humanity is basically a mound of sand built with grains that are each an idea. But I'm guessing here you're aiming for "impulsive" ... I also suggest "It'd" in the last strophe second verse because you began with an If. Choking on your own air, saturating your cells to the point of gastric ebullition, turgescent explosions of self-appropriated meaning.