Poetry & Silence
Most of the time, the only way I can comprehend this world is in poetry and silence. I sit in silence... and think in poetry... wondering what in the world has gotten into us, or maybe what has left. There really aren't words for the things that we do, the ways of this world. So I find myself engaging it in poetry... sometimes aimless rhythm and rhyme,
"What a tremendous contradiction...
what a great piece of humorous non-fiction.
Enunciate your diction...
Portray the friction... take a lick and keep on
Tickin', tock, tock, tickin'... round and round til you find yourself smitten.
Glove on the right hand, none on the left...
Lets get outa here, we're freezin' to death."
but mostly it's broken fragments of words that only make sense when they're first birthed in my mind. One moment a wealth of meaning, the next a pile of letters spelling nothing you can quite sound-out... which ends up mirroring the very thing I was attempting to express. It's funny how these broken things work out, making a painful harmony. I struggle to know whether it's beautiful or terribly tragic. I struggle to know anything at all. And so I'll go... engaging the world in poetry and silence.
Time of the most, it's the make sense that only thing.
"What a tremendous contradiction...
what a great piece of humorous non-fiction.
Enunciate your diction...
Portray the friction... take a lick and keep on
Tickin', tock, tock, tickin'... round and round til you find yourself smitten.
Glove on the right hand, none on the left...
Lets get outa here, we're freezin' to death."
but mostly it's broken fragments of words that only make sense when they're first birthed in my mind. One moment a wealth of meaning, the next a pile of letters spelling nothing you can quite sound-out... which ends up mirroring the very thing I was attempting to express. It's funny how these broken things work out, making a painful harmony. I struggle to know whether it's beautiful or terribly tragic. I struggle to know anything at all. And so I'll go... engaging the world in poetry and silence.
Time of the most, it's the make sense that only thing.
