I've been having a sudden, new-found surge of feeling.
Fresh as the raindrops dripping from my ceiling.
Freshly wet as the paint after I painted the town red
with my own blood.
Been trying to do more. Be more. See more. Share more. HEAL MORE. REVEAL more. LIVE more. than what I already have.
Signed up for a class at the college. Signed up for Yoga and kickboxing. Gotta get in touch with my body mind soul emotions past present wants needs thought processes. %strange revelations.% Gotta get in tune with the moon, fine tuned automobile purring engine sleek and burn fasting in the past basting in the waste...
[%change the thought process%%:]
I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to lately, not nearly as much as I used to-- which makes me feel empty and unable. Utterly generic and predictable.
No, not gorgeously magical at all... no, not magical at all.
There's so much I could write about, so much that I could/[have to] say- and I just cannot get it out. It's as if I've no more words left. They've fled. I took them all, each gorgeous diamond one for granted. And now there showing me what damage their absence can do.
I used to dream in black & white,
of dictionary pages full of luscious definitions and translations.
Sentences and fragments that held so much more blood and meaning that the notebook pages would bend and curl under the weight of the words.
Snorting lines and retorting lines.
Free from thoughts with my free-form thoughts.
My memories were memoirs of honesty and horror, indexes of incidences; tiny collections of recollection. 'Laundry list' journal entries of reasons and bad dreams. Fantastical fantasies filled with floating haiku's, hokku's and senryu.
Poems were metaphorical metamorphosis' for me, littered with wild punctuation, misused grammar, vintage slang. Parallel paragraphs comparing the similarities between similes, run-on sentences with beautiful rhythms and rhymes that came just oh-so-naturally to me.
A set of letters formed words,
and words created pictures
and without even seeing the scene I had seen, you could imagine the image I had burning in my mind,
right on the very tip of my tongue---
A unique inscription of descriptions inscribed on the inside of my mind.
Conversing in verses. I was lying with lyrics, using only the limited language I've learned, past down through generations from the dead before us.
Saved and educated by mouth-to-mouth pronunciation.
Shared, taught and learned from tongues and parted lips,
this graveyard language.
This graveyard language of song, faery tales and scary tales.
This graveyard language of pain and anguish that I languish.
This graveyard language... this graveyard language of the dead.
I'm thinking about doing so many many things as of late. Yoga classes, kickboxing, creative writing, to begin painting again, playing my guitar again, maybe start a band again, write that book, feed and car for the strays and unwanted, the lost and lonely seeking comfort and warmth. I feel most for those little creatures. I used to be them. I know what it's like to sleep in the cold with only the blanket of the sky to cover you. I know what the midnight looks like after it has undressed, slipped off that slip of blackness.
I know the feelings of "Loss", "Lost", and "Lose".
I know the power of a dollar $ and having to choose.
I know the Wind and Rain by their first & last christian names.
I know the terrible Loneliness that comes around at violet dusk.
I know the pain of doing what you mustn't do just because you must.
Empty bellied & Fiend-minded,
Miss Dahlia Black
- Current Location:The House of the Anxious Fiends
- Current Mood: hungry
- Current Music:[T.I.] "What you know?"