Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Worries and Weaves

Promise this is just another slip
Lay all your cards in front of me
Deal with the quake when it actually shakes you
Catch a breath to think

Perpetual the aiming of the shot
Shooting down every other dream
Of peacefully sinking into normalcy
Quake after quake…

You say I’m the one making things difficult
I’d rather crash than be all worries and weaves
You say I’m the one making this difficult
Won’t be pulled into your worries and weaves
How can you twill the circles in which we live?
Only fate can knit such intricate things

* * * * *

So dry is my skin in the peak of the summer
Great Plains run adrift to surrender my knuckles
So deft is the force that swallows our passions
If the point never gets anywhere

Life like a lover
Leaves no corpse
Life like a lover:
Remorse, fenced
Off, like a lover

You'll be counting fish by the time I decide to
Let go of the twirl

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