Raw

There's a silence surrounding me
I can't seem to think straight
I'll sit in the corner
No one can bother me
I think I should speak now
I can't speak now
My words won't come out right...Keep Talking; Pink Floyd

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Raw

Tonight I thought I would try to just place thoughts upon the page without major editing. So here goes...

My poetry seems to have taken over recently. I am trying to paint a picture, but not sure what that picture should be in the end. This is dangerous. You are always lost if you never know your destination, but sometimes being lost is the only way to find out who you are.

I ponder each word in my poems, to see if they are what belong on the page. As does the painter, as she drips color onto a canvas to show the world what she sees, even if it is skewed from the way most see reality. Art makes you question what we know.

Poetry makes you question what you know. I know I said poetry is my way of painting a picture. But, that may not be the entire story. Poetry is really my exploration into the intersection of language and thought. It is an exploration into the psyche for an attempt at drawing the reality I see and perceive.

That's it, I think, the reality I see and perceive. Because each of our realities are different, who is to say that my poetic explanation does not do some justification to what I think, feel, and experience. The mind is not simplistic thought; at least not mine. There is a complex machination of thoughts that intertwine to make a logical picture of abstract concepts.

For example, I cannot simply state that I love her. Rather, I have to explain the myriad of thoughts and feelings that surround my being as I tell her I love her. She sleeps among the night songs, to which I seek her sensuality. She is my soul. My existence. My song. My being.

And, the roses I give her are not just red. They are silky petals that offer a sensuous perfume within the vaginal bud, as the thorns remind us that there is a hurt that underlies the sustenance of this beauty. This flower offers no forgiveness nor emptiness.

That, my dear friends, is reality.

Furthermore, I cannot simply state that my generation wasted its existence on frivolous crap. It got high on materialism. But, to state it bluntly foregoes the complexity how this materialistic high caused many to overlook what is important; the generation focused solely on the triteness of a secular existence. It also takes away the imagination you bring to the poem as you read. Shape your own thoughts from the ideas spawned through the abstractness of a piece; it's all right to do so.

So, I may not have utilized this medium for the manner it was designed. It may have not been designed for poetry. I may push out too many poems. I may actually be too abstract at points.

At the end of the day, however, poetry is one way I can express what I perceive our world and existence to be. A complex machination of thought that places this generation into a deficit of attention.

The wind rustled the leaves and I picked roses. They can be red, pink, yellow, and white. You already had a color in mind when I mentioned them. Let your imagination tell you which color it was, not me.

Dream and explore...EjG