Description: I do not know why I haven't written in awhile. I've had no drive except the curiosity of why not? So I present another odd magnetic poetry piece in hopes to push me to produce something real.
Why let a masterpiece be empty and surreal
feeling every angel mount us like silhouettes?
Angry at time you scream about balance
and our aesthetic art.
We paint a mess of wasted music
and drug write from experiments
with expensive cameras and second-rate film
our finished product is nothing more
than a broken shard of intimacy.
A bit of a dim view of writing, eh? Or an accurate assessment of the process itself, black and white imagery embedded on the screen of the word processor or tablet accompanied by 'images' taken from life and memory. It seems inevitable that the 'camera' or inspiration will always be more beautiful than the 'second rate film' we commit to paper.
This is really unique. I'm not sure I understand it fully in the way you meant me to. The last stanza is very clear, and I really like the message you send there. It's so true; everyone cheats at being creative and the result is not so great. However, the images in the first three stanzas don't seem as connected, but I might be looking at everything the wrong way. Speaking of images, the ones you use are very powerful even if I don't understand exactly how they fit in. I especially like, "feeling every angel mount us like silhouettes?" Angel symbolism is really over done, but this is refreshingly unique. Overall, this was a very well written poem.