Ramblings of a madman.

IVE AN UPMOST COMPULSION TO CREATE
BUT IVE AN UPMOST EMPTY CHALICE OF TALENT
DIRECT ME TO THE WATERS EFFORT
DIRECT ME TO THE TEARS OF INSPIRATION

6 men sit at a table.
One is gay
One is blind
One is straight.
One is asleep
One is pretending to be asleep
One is dead.

They are all sad.

I asked someone a long time ago. What did they like about me. They said I’m pretty and I take joy in the little things in life.
Was gonna say something inspirational about that but its not happening.

A bird flew directly into the ground. WHEN WINGING IT DOESN’T WORK OUT.

My last few entries into WordPress have been drastically and mentally draining and make no sense.

I kept calling Tea, milk soup today. If I knew why i’d have stopped.

TO CONCLUDE this rambling entry into my wondrous blog of sanity exploration I SAY:

IVE AN UPMOST COMPULSION TO CREATE
BUT IVE AN UPMOST EMPTY CHALICE OF TALENT
DIRECT ME TO THE WATERS EFFORT
DIRECT ME TO THE TEARS OF INSPIRATION

Bog Water

This vanilla tea is like bog water.
But I will grow to love it as it will sing me to sleep.
It says so,
on the box.

I haven’t recently purchased a trio of socks.
brown
pink with flamingos
and one with a drink.

2 tablets I take each morning.
1 for vitamins.
1 for fixing my dry throat.
one isn’t doing it’s job.

Reading a book
about a entity I don’t know much about
It is very scary.
IT is it.

I dream about people in my life.
One old
One gone
one spooky.

This vanilla tea is still bog water.
I just took another sip.
I want it to grow on me.
I want to be a tea drinker.

I wanted to write about how it is okay to be sad.
But something less deep is required
I popped on the kettle, with vanilla tea.
And wrote what my fingers desired.

This vanilla tea is bog water.

within a glance.

perchance a display, lit brightly by the power above
documenting a costal horizon from childhood pass
a scent of salt laden air mixed with vanilla cones
comes to mind.

locked up within a surrounding, of cream paper
a black frame, containing memories so distant
masterstrokes of watercolour talent
ocean to land.

shovelling coal into a furnace to fuel said light
which brightens up this floating image
of days gone by
innocence lost.

I sit alone and glance at a painting in a frame on the wall, I place myself inside it. It’s warm and beautiful. I study the frame holding it and compliment the glass container which is giving it light.

strange things i do alone in the night.

I wanted to write.

I wanted to write but could not. I sneezed and coughed and looked at myself in the mirror.
I wanted to write but I slept. I snored and I tossed and I turned in my bed in its sweet warmth.
I wanted to write but I cooked. I ate and I drank and I sat whole the food digested deep inside.
I wanted to write but I browsed. I watched and I admired and I thought why don't I write.

I wanted to write. I wrote about what stopped me from writing, I wrote and I thought and then I stopped.

Rose

A beautiful thing petals crimson and soft.
if you grip too tight torns will cut, a river of blood will flow down
to a chest with a heart beating with no meaning

rose thats wilted petals turned dark and violent
ready to fall to pieces
if you grip the torns still strong still sharp.

I was a Rose, You were a rose