poetry.
man I love poetry. it’s dangerous though. I’m buried in work to the level that I’ll be working 14 days straight and that leaves me a little tired. when I’m tired I can get melancholy. then add some of your old poetry - basically journal entries from the past in short little lines to get the point across faster.
I can imagine where I was in stanzas of my own poetry, and in words of other people’s work. it’s 2am right now, not sleeping, thinking of places that I was. thinking of things that I said that I meant at the moment I said them, but didn’t mean 5 minutes later.
what’s worse, sometimes those things I said were because I somehow thought that that’s what I was supposed to say - maybe somewhere down the road I would be thankful for saying that one thing because it improved my life somehow. Here’s one that I’ve said 1,001 times: “No chance in Hell.”
Maybe I’ve grown into more of an optimist. It seems more like there’s always a chance - but then I wanted to save someone else from trying to love me, or save my pride when someone fired me from a job, but called to ask me back.
side story: when asked “do you want a merry-go-round life or a carousel?” my answer (then?) “I think they’d both make me sick.”
In my late teens I thought o O (roller coaster ride would be more fun)
Then I started dating and have wished for carousel since.
I guess I need to adapt more quickly - before more chances pass by.
I haven’t written that poem yet - maybe I should just on the off chance that I remember I wrote poems once, and need a moment to recall who I was.
Both comments and pings are currently closed.