Poetry

Posted on June 15, 2008

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I hate the feeling of needing to use art and create something and not being able to. I have so much to say and yet my words are blurred somewhere between wondering if I’m just the irrational child or wondering if anyone would care if I opened my mouth. I’m shocked at how I’m still not really able to write or talk about my experiences in Amsterdam. It’s too bad it’s two in the morning otherwise I might call you up and tell you how arrogant you sound. I wouldn’t, but it’s nice to have a “I might” in my head.

There is something very satisfying when a storm and I both leave to go back to my house and I reach it first. I half feel like a storm-chaser and half like a mad scientist who jumped fifteen minutes into the past for the first time. Sometimes I feel like I need to eat an apple after talking to you to clean my throat and stomach. There are days where I feel like the world is a joke or that the world is a riddler whose riddle begins with the letter “k”.

I have so much to say. How do I learn to write in a coherent form again? It seems that right now my mind is running on pure gasoline and is producing endless stanzas of poetry, each about fifteen lines long which all vary in length.

If you’re any kind of a mediocre stalker you already found this site and I could write something to you, but I won’t. These trips to other worlds in my head are almost coming true with the weather we’ve been having. The mornings and afternoons are blazing and sticky but by the time evening comes there are violent winds and rain and we’re all hoping we didn’t get stuck in some tv show as the minutes turned into midnight. The ridiculous thing is not knowing what I should say to you. And you’ll be gone in three weeks. I’ve known you for so long and maybe that’s why you listened with a grin when I told you a tale about three animals who were stolen away from the zoo. You ask me for a story. What else did you expect?

I hope you can help me decipher my poetry.

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