Uninspired. I hate it like this. New influx is just reassurance, not new ground. Perhaps I just continue to forget those times when we really push it, change it, and rego. Writing is still backburning. It doesn't surface in more than short, immemorable skits, or as a phrase or two, nearly enough to cause one to act upon their substance.
Anguish piled as high as the rocks
outside the parapet, where cursing
waves smashed themselves in flocks
of mad white birds versing
a dark grey tune of woe and dream,
a bright young beauty entombed
by forces of dread teamed and
teeming with the foul,
the dark, the watchfulness
he cowered in his hall,
amidst the light and song.
His payment quickly traversed
and his reason was not in coming long.
*where I flipped the book upside down and began writing from the back.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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