If It Pleaseth

If It Pleaseth

Well.

I have held a pen almost every day,

why do I never finish?

Scream! well.

I have held a pen every day,

I have brought the papers, the surface, a notebook anywhere;

but it’s all there, in my head.

(why is it still there? why is it never on paper?)

Scream. well.

I am holding a pen every day,

the new idea from a dream, from anything,

a spoonful of words

but no one will ever know. I’m running out of time

scream; well.

I won’t forget it, I can’t if I wanted to, I don’t.

but neither will they.

they never knew, they don’t live in my ideas, in my mental computer files

I keep running out of breath to say it one last time

*c o n t i n u o u s   s c r e a m*

I just need more time, just need to figure it out, just need a little more air

but I can’t scream loud enough anymore

So If It Pleaseth the powers that be, please, let this work for me.

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People get rings like those of a tree (but ours are under our eyes).

Part of a larger work, I Used to be a Shark. Small musings.

People get rings like those of a tree (but ours are under our eyes).

Most of the times I begin something, it is with a spurt of creativity, and I want to write. It isn’t always so, such as now; but I do feel that, seeing as finding self-worth from marked progress would be a nay-sayer to the hopeful actuality, I cannot delay. People are tired. I am among them, and I sympathize; I would even if I wasn’t among them: how could someone with the wiles of today rest peacefully at the hope of tomorrow, when tomorrow is clad the same as today?

If I did not have to think, I would say that sometimes I might be happier. Still, for the times when thinking is the thing to do, the small solace it brings is worth that price… Which might be worth more? well— that is the question to answer.

A very wordy explanation might be due, but pray it might not be written where a shorter one would suffice. For my purposes, no answer would suffice. Now I am just rambling… Intelligence is ironic that it might be put to use in silence but seldom aloud. It is always said to be a shared thing, and for what it’s worth as a stupid thing, that’s odd. My discourse of course isn’t what makes something intelligent, but why we continue to slave as a collective people in this age. We are tired, and I, here among the “we,” show sympathy. I would even if I wasn’t among the “we.”

I began to think that, had not someone at some point sat down and thought of why he had decided to do what he just did, what was his reason for moving at all, much less to think about thinking of a reason, we would all arrive very differently to a conclusion of the purpose of life. I do not mean to say that people tire of purpose, regardless of what that purpose may be. I do say that they tire of the constant quest to maintain that purpose. Put simply, those things we must do that aren’t what we really are here to do, but are necessary to able to keep doing our purpose. A mild difference. I know. But from mild to miles between. Our trouble is with this maintenance. The space in between doing what matters that actually kind of does matter.

Absolutely we should not set ablaze a people as a forest. But if a tree, when cut open, displays a charred ring— I mean to say a fire that it survived in its youth or really at any point— and has grown, we might know that the non-thinkers can get through the toughest of times.

Without meaning to.

It’s the thinkers that have the trouble greatest of all.

Get [Out] of my head so I can get [In.]

I wrote this awhile back in regards to something I’ve been dealing with since I was small. I wrote it as a rant in a letter at first, then decided to continue it into a bigger piece. Not poetry, except maybe because of the formatting. But it’s something.

 

Imagine having your annoying cousins or weird step siblings come over.

Different than you, separate lives and identities. You share a room with them.

Since they don’t have anyone else, you’re in charge of taking care of

them.

 

At first, they’re okay. Fun, like a new addiction;

friends for the lonely times,

entertainment for the boring times,

an escape for the hard times.

But then they start to inflict their emotions on you, until you can’t have any of your own.

 

Oh, and you can’t tell anyone.

 

Now put those annoying people, everything they do, in your head.

They are distracting, but if you don’t give them an opportunity to exist outside your head, you feel dazed and jittery and off.

They are both very tiring and distracting,

but you decide it is easier to give in.

That means precedence over school,

sleeping,

relaxing,

working,

even your own private thoughts.

 

Still, the more time you give, the more they want. The more they need, to take the pressure away.

If you feel something, experience something,

They apply it to themselves, and you don’t get to have it.

 

Soon, the plots of their lives start intertwining with yours;

their bad day in their world crosses into yours.

It isn’t so common to cross good days, only sometimes good moments

Everyone is perceived simultaneously. They might be conflicting, yet they are separated.

They become hyper realistic. Their preferences, their histories, their friends and families, the towns they live in. you find yourself at the computer to fact check for optimum reality.

you are having to control the mind, actions, and reactions of as many different people as are appearing right now. There are some characters who exist in the same world and know each other. Only you know everyone.

 

Who are they?

They are drifting off while the answers to an exam are read. They are losing five, six, seven hours a day. They are passing up parties, outings with people you only seldom see. They are losing your passions. They are being ashamed of someone who isn’t even real. They are missing someone who never existed. They are missing assignments. They are wanting so much to sleep but reliving the same scenes every night for months on end, until one night you finally don’t have to. They are not being able to remember if you are sad because of yourself or because of them. They are forgetting your best friend’s graduation party. They are losing the friends you do have.

 

But imagine all of these people are you,

and you are them.

So you feel like a different person, and the real life you sometimes becomes “imaginary” while the imaginary part becomes the “reality.”

And it can be very hard trying to stay you on the outside when you feel as though someone else is trying to control everything inside.

Recycling Mythology?

This past year I read the Canterbury Tales (not in its entirety, but a good chunk). I’ve written a few short tales in verse form, and I really like the tight-ship of keeping with a good rhythm and rhyme. And shucky darn, Sir Geoffrey Chaucer made my little heart happy.

I’ve read the Bhagavad Gita, the Odyssey, the Iliad, and [regrettably] some of Beowulf, and I’m always really impressed by the use of verse for such long pieces. I wish I could read Old English or Sanskrit or classical Greek so I really got a sense for things, but for now I’m pretty happy that the modern age does its damnedest to cater to us English speakers.

Anyways, after reading a few other myths I’ve been getting an urge to try my hand at making a longer verse piece. Basically, recycling the plot into rhyme. So far an original piece is going pretty well, and I thought I’d share a bit of what I’m working on later. I figure it’s easier to come up with a plot that suits my rhyming needs before I try to make myself into a wannabe-super-writer. But the thought’s there.

My tale is featuring a maiden (because maidens are the middle-aged waitresses of the character tropes, overworked and pretty easy to find). She’ll go on a few adventures trying to find the Lord of Knowledge so she can learn about *things* (which things? I don’t know!) Right about now she’s having her first sashay with a decrepit river nymph/creature. Spoiler: river nymph is bad. But because we need someone who doesn’t know the rules about not talking to stranger river nymphs, we use a maiden.

And everything comes full circle.

 

Currently I’m on the hunt for some dank tales– shouldn’t be hard, because mythology folk know how to tell a cutthroat story. And, you know, can’t stray too far off brand. (BONUS: the comfort of having a lot of descriptive morbid vocabulary).

In the mean time, I think I’ll give my thesaurus a break for a little so it can get its beauty rest before I abuse it to find a good word fit!