That’s how ridiculous and foreign anger is to me.
xD I can’t even help but laugh when I get like this.
Anyway,
Going to the park this weekend kind of made me want to go into a writer’s slumber.
Like voluntary writer’s block?
Or something?
I’m probably crazy.
I just feel like it needs a rest before it becomes too fluffy or too forced.
And all this ambiguous poetic crap is obnoxious.
I honestly don’t feel like a poet.
Oh, it’s annoying.
Especially when I know I write better when I’m out of that mindset.
Fuck you, poetical structure.
Turning all of my ideas into bullshit nonsense.
That love/hate battle I have with poetry is crapping on my doorstep again.
I need to become a neologist and give birth to some word that gives me peace of mind.
Because the more I think “poet” when I’m writing, the more fkjhdjkfhgdkj things get.
You know?
I bet I could go back in my posts and point out exactly when the word “poetry” snuck back into my vernacular.
¬_¬ -Frump frump frump frump-
HOW on earth does one get away from a word that is undefineable? D:
Maybe I could just call them short stories, and beat up people who try to tell me otherwise.
Sunday
Once upon a time, I was Immortal.
Living vicariously through an element named Sunday.
She told me she was wise.
She was the eldest daughter, after all.
She told me there was danger in numbers.
Told me true sanctuary was in nature.
That sound was corrosive, and metal was violent.
Told me simple things, like:
White meant death
And red meant life
And green was just plain pretty to look at.
She told me to stay away from creatures
Especially those who expire
Sunday talked bitterly of humans.
Talked hastily
In hurried whispers
Afraid the word itself would turn her silver tongue to copper.
She talked of spirits and gods loudly
Love of the unearthly
Those who overcame the human state
Overcame her worst fear
She really was quite convincing.
I envied her.
Look at it! ^
Looks like a frelling poem.
Bugger.
