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[30 Nov 2006|01:32am] |
I haven't written any poetry for a long time. It's not an intentional thing, I simply haven't had the spirit to do so. What's most annoying is that i've felt utterly nothing in my head that would suggest that I have anything to say that I have not said before, in differing forms and in many ways.
I'm not a writer who gets kicks from turns of phrase, rhythm or rhyme. I write primarily from the things that come into my head. Lately, there's been nothing I can't say in normal prose. And none of that is interesting. I do my work in visceral terms, because my own life is largely colourless. There are things I want to say, but these things are too hard to bring up.
It's to do with old frustrations. Things left unsaid. Denouments not settled. Late at night the woodpecker lays into my skin and leaves holes, because he knows there are some things that can never heal, won't be able to because the fact is there will never be any words said.
Matters unresolved...
Humans like me need to be able to know that without a doubt that they're on the right track, that they're as good a person as they can be. Not necessarily creatively or in terms of how far they drag themselves up the ladder, but those things that define them as a person. Their essential goodness, their ability to feel, to reward others with the same good will as they themselves recieve.
I don't know if i've done that, as much as I could have. I write well, sensitively, long and thoughtfully, but i'll never ever know if how I think I am translates to how I am with others. I sometimes failed, and I admit I often felt the niggle of dark thoughts. I yelled curses at the air and I wept with rages I never thought I was capable of harbouring.
Truly others may have too, but it does not matter. It's my mind which I have control over, not theirs. I have the only tools I need to be good, and to chip away at the things that supplant the purity in me. Ok, i'm a naughty chap, I make jokes about death, I have a fetish for fishnets, and I can be an unutterable bitch, but deep in my heart I want to be that kind of man that is fair, kind and without malice.
And I don't think i've succeeded lately. It's up to me to differentiate. To have been able to use my brain to work out what I was doing or saying was right, or wrong. God knows i'm intelligent enough, both emotionally and intellectually. But somewhere I drop between the two and they clash. The clinical gets in the way of the heart. I am too much of a man, I think too much sometimes with my balls and cock, and not with my guts, with my strings, with my blood.
You see, the genitalia can mean that a man thinks sexually and brashly, but it also means he's wired to think harshly, with bravado, with dismissive thinking, and I have lost part of my beauty to the masculine..there is a need for such things, it after all makes me sometimes flicker with what little male charm and attractiveness I have, but it also fucks up my poetic mind. And therefore, turns me grey and stone, rather than fluid, vibrant, feminine.
Because I believe that my mix of the two is what makes me me. I have a mind that is not a constant thing. It's a scattering, open head with busy bustling things buzzing around inside it. To me, there is no straight answer, there is no judgement, there is no one thing that drives my character and defines me. This is something that can make me frustratingly hard to have a friendship or relationship with, because I am never one particular thing.
But what I do have is a cavernous heart and a belief that at my best, i'm a huge thinker and a very, very warm and good man.
However, I have long reached the conclusion that my own sharp moodswings, and harshly reached ends led me to lose the moral good in me.
And from there, the poetry faded.
I want it back. It's important for me. I want to be loved again, by someone who can find this good within me. I need to nurture it back and have it again, before that happens. For me. And for them.
Maybe then one day i'll get my words back.
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