O/F for the Soul
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it!” Adam’s crows echoed throughout Eden.
Yet a step back reveals the pointlessness of it; baring yourself naked for a like and a repost. And hindsight reveals glossed-over imperfections; mental scars and mars… insecurities artfully concealed away from thirsty eyes. It is all but sleight of hand, feints used to draw eyes here while the trick happens there, the truest beauties ever looming below skin-depth. And the hell is that those who proclaim their andmiration are the self-same who degrade it, cheapening demand. Unslaked beauty withers in the harsh light of day, but the option is premature burial, pressed darkly down until a-mouldered to ash.
“Bare it,” sung Adam!
And “bare it,” says I... slake their thirsts with a soul worth seeing, and with a song worth singing.
Creatively Near Death
I was dead for a while. Working that 9-5 turns me inside out. By the end of the day slumped in the house on the couch with my soul coming out. Last thing was on my mind was writing. The creativity was dead rigor mortis, harder than my calcified pineal gland. On a serious note I was exhausted. Even with the full weekend my body doesn't feel fully recovered. Mind was pressured under the strain of meeting deadlines with no more money to gain. It is draining so being uninspired is a understatement. There's no time think.
Executer
The last present I ever gave her was blue Roseville pottery. I purchased a lot of it at auction years ago. I knew it would make good gifts for her at the right times.
Eventually, she required a display cabinet.
At Christmas, I gave her the last pieces of pottery.
I heard from family at the funeral that she was proud of me. She often spoke of where I was working, what I was doing.
I thought I disappointed her.
I hope she genuinely enjoyed all those Roseville vases and bowls.
Next week I have to start boxing it up.
Inspiration
inspiration is like the tides
it nips at your feet when it rolls in and leaves without a moments notice
when it's high perhaps you'll have more
when it's low you'll feel a painful empty drought
so you sit
your feet dry out like leather
the salt lapping until your flesh wares away just leaving your bones
and then the tide takes those too
but you can't escape
no-- don't want to escape
you live but as a slave to the tides
driven by your inspiration, your muses
you wish you could dive in and drown surrounded by humanity; hopes, dreams, failures, sadness, joy
you want it to engulf every inch of your soul and leave you with nothing
no pain
no worries
nothing but the tides
Only You
Here's a caring thought
to inspire you to think.
Here's a pat on your back,
Just follow your basic instinct.
That clever way you see things
That others cannot see.
That creative way you put things
That are not supposed to be.
That subtle way you say things
To make people understand.
The considerate way you move things so that someone else could expand.
That artistic way you draw things to show the beauty within.
That artistic way you draw thingsTo show the beauty within.
You can be inspired by anyone or anything, just give in.
You can be inspired by anyone oranything, just give in.
Serrated edges
Wondering somehow, even though I can barely think
Wishing I knew what I could do.
I want to talk to people,
but I don't think I have the energy for it.
I want to draw,
but what?
Nothing is popping at me.
I want to write, but I can't feel enough to do so.
So I watch the blood pump through my veins.
Motivated.
Knowing exactly what it wants and is doing.
Pain helps me think, but I don't feel up to it.
Driving to, but the moons not out.
The music isn't hitting right, if anything it's making me sleep.
I want to do something.
I want to sing, but my voice is to tired.
Plus, I don't know what to sing
I want to write
but my soul has been cut from me and I can't find words
I wish
But with no dandelions.
I love,
but with no heart.
I move, but with no energy.
Waiting for the ideas to hit me like they once did.
But until then, I'll be a robot.
Few thoughts,
cold,
working,
but always trying to be something else.
Until my serrated edge gets sharpened into a smooth line.
Until I'm able to cut right to the soul with one stroke.
Empty Well
There are places in our lives that we do not wish to touch. We avoid the weighted discomfort of our self repression because to confront such a thing is to admit our shortcomings. Being uninspired and bored often coincides with procrastinating. When we put off tasks that are tedious but necessary, it does not help! It compiles our problems and leads to our stress. Then we become itchy and short sighted. Have you put off dusting? Well, that simply will not do! I will do that and THEN, after I have finished, I will wrestle the elephant in the room.
Perhaps we are stuck feeling worthless, unimpressive, or pitiful. Perhaps we cannot pool from the well within our souls because we are empty. Tapped out. Dried up. Painfully depleted. Droughts are a terrible thing. Any friction and it will all go up in flames.
You can set ablaze and ruminate on the past. Visit betrayals, departed loves, or muse on opportunities not ceased. There is potential, but what good can it do? You can fixated on the future. The unfinished and unpredictable future.
It's best when I am uninspired to plant myself down. Bore my flesh into the ground, taste the stale air, hear the light buzzing, and close my eyes into a black abyss. Be present and find the missing piece I am in desperate need of in order to be inspired. Confront the nagging thread that is sticking up from its stitch. What has your mind consumed that you can hardly focus enough to find something in this magnificent life to he inspired by? What are you avoiding within yourself?
Feed your body something nourishing. Rest! Exercise your body as well as your mind. Connect with someone, especially if you haven't had contact in some while. Balance your life and you will find balance in your mind. Only when you are at your best will you be inspired. Life does not come to those who are drying out. It comes to those who seek to quench their thirst! And only through a life WORTH living can you pull from a deep well.
The End of Writer’s Block
the way to beat
the uninspired trap
is to write and post
even if it's crap*
why must you chase
the curse of perfection?
when the worst case is
you'll taste of rejection
so you'll get no likes
from those who read it
well at least you're writing—
and they can all eat shit.
rather be a writer
who some other writers block
than paralyzed in tears
with that dreaded writer's block
*such as this poem
1/21/2025
Tomb of the Unknown Sentence
I was feeling uninspired and creatively dulled. Oh, I could write about anything easily, really. I could draft a predictable romance or some stupid dragon fantasy. I could tell a cautionary tale or even take a thrill ride on a stream-of-consciousness piece. I could involve animals for cuteness, irony, metaphor, or even to champion animal rights. Space battles? Easy!
I could wield maudlin, chagrin, regret, irony, epiphany, metaphor, and even the dark in ways that are good but, regrettably, had all been done before. Dark and stormy nights are for pussies! The best of times really are the worst.
I'm yawning.
All that's been done before. Where's the fun in such things?
There are no new twists to be had. Writing—good writing—is not just recycling. Emulate Hemmingway? There are still Hemmingways around in his estate to pay a lawyer for a cease-and-desist. Rip off Vonnegut? Yeah, just try. It won't even be close. Channel the NYT best sellers? You don't have a head start, so forgeddabout it. Magic, witches, wizards vs coming-of-age, thrillers, or whodunnits? I'm not just yawning.
I'm desperate.
I must write something that's never been read before. That's the only way I can climb Mazlow's pyramid. I want a sentence that has never been uttered to leap off the page and hook the stupid agent who insists on that "good fit."
The opening line would have to be unique, totally novel, even startling but, most importantly, be something that's never been said or read before—in English or any language.
And so I begin...
He looked like a millionaire on a horse. (I don't exactly know what that means, but a millionaire on a horse must look some good.)
Quick, hand me the piano! (That depends on who's saying it. You wouldn't want a large percussion instrument to fall into the wrong hands. After all, it's not just black and white.)
The way I see it, Hitler had a point. (No, wait, someone said that recently, although Grammarly reports, "This text is well-written.")
I loved her like a cactus. (Although I could wrap a whole novella around explaining how that was true.)
Even the cows laughed at my thumbs. (Has anyone ever tested the cow demographic about thumbs? Gotta think.)
We made love on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day as the bullets flew over us. (I'm afraid I can't write that, even if I want to write something that's never been written before. There are limits to both the laws of physics and the rules to lovemaking that cannot be broken. Well, maybe the laws of physics.)
We made love on the beaches of Normandy the day after D-Day, the spent bullets in the sand no more bothersome than the sand fleas. (Now you're talkin'!)
On the day my father died, I beat Mick Jagger bowling, two games out of three, blindfolded. (Imagine the exposition derived from explaining that Mick Jagger is my father and that I used The Force to beat him.)
My wastebasket fills with single, crumpled sheets, each with a single impossible sentence. Some sentences, it turns out, are dead on arrival. I throw a match in, the impossible sentences are, again, impossible, as the paper ashes float away.
No wonder I'm never a good fit. And no wonder I'm no damn millionaire on no damn horse! And now I wonder about my thumbs.
inspiration
a garden,
filled to the brim with flowers of every color
an treasure chest poking up from under the sand
with images of a love that used to be and objects that tell their story
a forest, dark and scary
nightmares come to life within
inspiration is everywhere
i find mine in the little things
my heart, split open
bleeding on everyone and everything around
my mind, that constantly spins in circles,
overthinks everything i have ever believed
my face, and its every expression
the image of every thought i have
the poems i've written
the memories i've made
the people i've loved
the people i've lost
the places i've been
the places i long to go
and all the other things that make us human
because inspiration is everywhere as long as we keep finding it