Monday, May 19, 2008

I'm not really writing. I think about writing. Random things -- essential things. Things I like to talk myself to sleep. I have these arguments, conversations, poems, songs I take my head to rest. But when I sit to write them down, they seem to die perhaps in exhaustion of being played over and over in dreams.
What do I dream about? I dream about dragons, fairies, witches and dogs -- not in an Enid Blyton sort of way -- but exchanging them with people I'm with. They're good dreams, pointless dreams, but most time just a mere plea of confusion and anger.
What is it? I can't get myself to tell. I want you to read to go on and on. But I'll take my mystery to the grave, just as I know you will as well. You and I know that even we don't know what how glass walls keep our heads in order.
I've been messed. Messed as I picked the stray remnants of my mind that has broken too many nerves in order to understand a question I have an answer.
Over beer, smokes, special smokes, on dirty white walls, with a broken grey sky, I've looked. Looked, looked, looked.
And I saw nothing. In one room filled with ancient art, tired songs, rusty books, and a dripping tap -- I saw nothing.
In so many ways I try to tell, and I in so many ways I hate the thought of you. That everything is burnt

4 Comments:

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8:20 AM, May 20, 2008  
Blogger Jason Dittle said...

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8:21 AM, May 20, 2008  
Blogger Jason Dittle said...

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8:22 AM, May 20, 2008  
Blogger The Dude said...

ah jerry, I know too well how you feel.
to be writing and creating things of your own mind and not that which you are told to, its a feeling like none other i can recall.. and then to have it tired and fearful of coming out when asked is a sadness like none other..
have no worries my harrowed friend, though the shite hath hit-eth the fans at this moment, it will run out eventually and then, well then we shall see what we're made of eh?

10:28 AM, May 20, 2008  

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