Through the Looking Glass
I'm not sure how to be subtle
I know you'll learn to breathe
In the darkened room
stained glass light drifting aimlessly
Paris is below us with a chill air
Dust illuminates the sun
We're alone here I think
Creaked piano lays elephantine
Blue of eye-like brown
Take a breath and look
Heavenbound and hellspent
Socratic myths and Newtonian
Apples descend when glass breaks
Or when you fall from grace
and the dust follows you out
Paris approaches and stained
Red of glass and red of life
Salvation recedes past Hell
When the last leaf falls
Beyond a faded blue cross.
This was supposed to be romantic. But it was changed, and has become one of the most cryptic poems I've ever written. I'm not a big fan of cryptic verse because I feel it's pretentious, and also because I can't do it well. I don't know. I enjoy writing it for some reason. I think it would be funny if one day I died and they found my journal and were all like:
"Holy crap... he's like Emily Dickenson in sheer volume, but like a monkey at a keyboard in quality..."
And then they'd use my poems as examples of how not to write poetry. Oh well... like I said, I enjoy it.
I think it's funny how I rarely write about my day in this blog or my livejournal. I think I should start living life a bit more, instead of drawing into myself. So watch me fall from grace tomorrow. I'm going to a dance. It will be a perfectly incroyable exercise on being not myself. Hooray.
I've decided I'm like an ingrown toenail. I double back on myself and cause myself great pain. Heh. Interesting analogy, but not entirely accurate. At least, I suppose, I'm not pompous.
Don't you wish there was some way to get music into words?
The enter key wants me to press it.
Are you happy now, enter key? No?
How about now? Yes? Good? Good. I think it would be fun to be able to poke people and have them do something. Like, the same thing each time. Say, for example, that you went up to somebody, poked that person, and they quacked. *poke* "quack." *poke* "quack" *pokepokepoke* "qu qu quack"
Way too much fun. I'm done now.
I know you'll learn to breathe
In the darkened room
stained glass light drifting aimlessly
Paris is below us with a chill air
Dust illuminates the sun
We're alone here I think
Creaked piano lays elephantine
Blue of eye-like brown
Take a breath and look
Heavenbound and hellspent
Socratic myths and Newtonian
Apples descend when glass breaks
Or when you fall from grace
and the dust follows you out
Paris approaches and stained
Red of glass and red of life
Salvation recedes past Hell
When the last leaf falls
Beyond a faded blue cross.
This was supposed to be romantic. But it was changed, and has become one of the most cryptic poems I've ever written. I'm not a big fan of cryptic verse because I feel it's pretentious, and also because I can't do it well. I don't know. I enjoy writing it for some reason. I think it would be funny if one day I died and they found my journal and were all like:
"Holy crap... he's like Emily Dickenson in sheer volume, but like a monkey at a keyboard in quality..."
And then they'd use my poems as examples of how not to write poetry. Oh well... like I said, I enjoy it.
I think it's funny how I rarely write about my day in this blog or my livejournal. I think I should start living life a bit more, instead of drawing into myself. So watch me fall from grace tomorrow. I'm going to a dance. It will be a perfectly incroyable exercise on being not myself. Hooray.
I've decided I'm like an ingrown toenail. I double back on myself and cause myself great pain. Heh. Interesting analogy, but not entirely accurate. At least, I suppose, I'm not pompous.
Don't you wish there was some way to get music into words?
The enter key wants me to press it.
Are you happy now, enter key? No?
How about now? Yes? Good? Good. I think it would be fun to be able to poke people and have them do something. Like, the same thing each time. Say, for example, that you went up to somebody, poked that person, and they quacked. *poke* "quack." *poke* "quack" *pokepokepoke* "qu qu quack"
Way too much fun. I'm done now.
posted by Aermethys at 9:31 PM
1 Comments:
i like it, a lot. cryptic works in this case.
and you cant be another emily dickenson, to do that you would have to turn into some freak that never leaves their house, and we wont let that happen.
Post a Comment
<< Home