Sitting here, having just slid the physical copy of the literary, intellectual shitstorm that was my paper, I slowly eat my cocoa pebbles wondering about the world around me and feeling compelled to write a blog for this week. Seeing as my ability and wanting to write prose is equal to how much I want Mike Tyson to play slug-bug with me, (I'll give you a hint; it starts with "No way" and ends with "in hell") I think I will stick to a medium of high art and fashion, other wise known to some of my friends as, "that thing that weird emo-kids do." Of course what I am talking about is poetry, or what I deem as poetry. This of course would be a misconception on my part because it falls somewhere between "Roses are red..." poems and nursery rhymes. Now that the caffeine is settling in, so should you too, my audience, and prepare for the strange thinkings of a kook, a screwball, and a gentleman of a certain degree, bachelors for those who are wondering.
If you're still reading, or just skipped to this line for no apparent reason, kudos because now you get to hear from a brain that the Mad Hatter himself would label as brother:
My story begins, where all things must,
the middle of the beginning or maybe just
the beginning of a series called my life,
or maybe, the pages of the past, are cut down with a knife.
I agree with you that all of this seems really, very strange.
You read this with your thoughts, this bullocks very plain
The mind leads to think, memories to fade or to change
to live, to dream, to fight, to love, to be insane
A life as a hopeful Romantic is a hopeless one abound,
Like one searching for treasure; no map or starting ground.
And when he finds the husk, of a plunder that's been done,
he is not careless or thinks there's only one.
This pilgrim of the detail, learns life through another
each failure, a new truth, each scratch, mental loot;
closer, final chest, new tricks for the lover
of wit and of beauty he doth pursuit
For one learns Happiness, be not a single road
with a message golden that a sign does well bode.
Pursuit isn't one lone beast but one of many heads
and life is but a journey, living fear and dreads
find there way into minds dreaming in their beds.
In conclusion, my mind doth spin -- like a top,
sitting in my chair, silent sleeper ego lies
falling from my head drip by drop
cutting all subconscious ties
Says the id about to flop
mindless, mad demise.
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