nothing
August 17, 2006nothing to be done
this fucking poetry is killing me
time, elasped
poetry, unread, forgotten (unwritten)
words, they die
as we live
mocking the spaces inside of our minds
mocking them boulders and calling them life-less
life, we allow it to grow around us
we let it fill our crevices
and the hollow spaces within us
just like boulders do
(after the monsoon)
life, we let be
we let it take what shape it can (like plasticine?)
we let it grow, like weed, wherever it is capable of
life, like poetry,
has no meaning, (if you dont look for it)
has no reason
(so fuck it)
life
is it poetry?
(a learning curve?)
a memo of dreams unfulfilled? (haha)
("grotesque? you call my painting grotesque?")
a journey through shame and consciousness? (is it for some?)
it is hate, perhaps
for all that you carry with you
is all you fear to lose
eventually, you lose everything
(but you never lose your hate)
