Sigh, So slow, So long

Or a Raving Rant about my Artistic Process

When colors occlude as words to the weary fail to shine
For colors, so vibrant, twirl, lighten loads of life to define
So such pleasures sought, we weak, tremble away from work to do
As pleasant thoughts entice us from hard glories to attain and chew
The stress as thus enthralls many to paths beaten worn well toward wide
Yet gold glimmers under stores held hard, petrified, from the casual, denied
Ugh in so few
I’m frustrated
Fractured streams of thoughts, such sinuous smoke slides on the sly before me
Then is gone
Stories swirl up in here, thoughts felt, dreams of futures ahead
Yet instead, tubin away I mope, medicating in mindlessness, watch a world whirl
By, as I still, kept in carapace, unassailed, unmarked steeled such stainless   
Incarcerated, in silver set, I lie by, discarnated, the spirit sees beyond
But held, is denied to move
So I sit
A chair for second
From such stature stagnant
Such a soul stilted
Sturs the hamster hesitant
But the stone takes the Sisyphean stroll back to birth
For though apex atop in the whirl’s circular spin
At best life is a spiral towards a line flat, fallen and at an end
So to be, before to not, as such I aspire
As thou art in color or in letting loose scripts, I aim
Though the becoming burdens bear, bounding barely beyond barren
Still, I’ll try
Still, I’ll go on
In colorful words
Within worlds colored

Long post?–Have a pear! 😉

appearant

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Dear Writing . . .

dear-writing-bigger

 

Dear Writing,

      Sorry, So so sorry, it’s me, not you but lately, I’ve been busy, maybe too busy. Or lazy, yep that’s probably it. Lazy. But I’m back–I’m trying to, at least–hey give me some credit. It’s hard these days, you know–I got a job, adult responsibilities, articles to read, old writings to review, the past to reminisce about–like remember when we had so much time and I had so much energy, that I would just write everything and anything, the only thing stopping me was that I was tired, or really had to go to the bathroom, or there were way too many words with red jagged underlines?

Yep, those were the days, those were . . . But now, now dreary old now, I so live for the weekend, as the week, ugh don’t remind me! Yet the good thing is that it does fly fast–before you know it, it’s Friday, yay! Friday night is seriously the best because I can work on art–oh whoops, I forgot, yeah, how to say it . .  .so yeah  . . I’ve been hanging out with art a lot more these days, uh sorry. Art is so vibrant, with all the colors you can throw on the screen, and all those lines and curves I can manipulate into form. The stories I can tell are endless–not to say, I can’t tell stories with you as well, Writing.  But it is so hard sometimes to get started–your great blank white pages stare at me and I shiver, oh I shiver and sometimes  all I want to do is curl up into a ball and play my 3DS. Yeah, you’re right–art has white pages as well. But you see there, I can quickly change that with  a nice bland pastel rectangular background. With a couple odd shapes, though awkwardly arranged into a blocky form, already I can see in my creative eye the beginnings of a masterpiece.

But with you, Writing, 5 minutes in, and that measly sentence or two, lonely floating in a  sea of white, silently heckling me as in my head, a million thoughts racing are showing me all the things I could be doing now, and I just can’t think of the next thing I want to say. So 30 minutes, later when a teenager of a paragraph stares up at me, red lines like warts blinking everywhere, half-thought-out sentences with ands, other conjunctions streaming along a pile of miserably incoherent tangents meandering through a prose so magenta even Prince would be scared to wear it, I just simply don’t know–I don’t know it I care enough to wade through it , and clean up those sentences in bad need of liposuction, a diet (NOT A SEE FOOD DIET), and exercise–or even if I care enough to continue on with this train of thought, whose engine of an idea was so bright and friendly like Thomas until we started up that hill–many axles were more that scuffed in the climb. Yet at the top, all I could see was the upcoming mountain and, uh, uh I just couldn’t, just couldn’t anymore–Facebook break.

Whoops, that was a long time, a lot of cats, though. Anyway, where was I? Ah, the real reason why I wrote this. Um, erm, so, eh, last month October, the 10th month, even though in Latin it literally means the eighth month–but I digress, to save me more time, uh, please. So in October, there is this thing called Inktober you may have heard about. It is about drawing every single day in ink and posting it. So the good news–yay, good news–is that I was able to do that, even some of my post were kind of late, give a day/weeks or something like that. But, erm, the bad news. So this month is November, the 11th–okay, I’ll get to my point. In November, there is NaNoWriMo in which you are supposed to write 50,000 words. While not exactly doing that, in the vein of it I had hoped to write some stuff with you Writing this November but as they say, “Hopes are fickle things like butterflies who as they flit often fly in front of lit flamethrowers.” Naive butterflies fried. But anyways, I have a concession–letters. Together we can write letters to many different things–projects that need cheering up, poems that need to be written, art that is still struggling to get itself together. These letters could be fun  just like this one was. And with that, Writing, dear old friend, I am sorry about this month but don’t hold it against me, I’m a busy lazy man but I’ll make sure to hang with you more often.

 

Until the next  keystroke and cursive letter,

Lelantos Lynx        

Sleepy Music

With a rhythmic ruse

Doth my gentle muse

my set focus skews

as a poem she cues

 

thus stanzas here ooze

as verses she doth fuse

shaping shiftly the hues

shadows glistening she brews

 

thus when I wish to snooze

with thoughts flowing doth she abuse

her poet dear, sleep she doth excuse

but with discordant verses she imbues

 

So with coffee, ideas will amuse

as a shy vimful lyric accrues

Sleep feints, as rhythms perfuse

thus nightly the fight continues . . .

So Poet Wonder

 

sensei shy guy.png
Click to see a bigger version!

 

A fire burned, cauldron fright

A world yearned, raging might

A mind turned, thinking bright

Yet a law spurned, destroying light

 

For it was night, the poet amused

In the darkness, ideas livid enthused

They screamed lunacy, such laws accused

Disconcerted, ideas vivid slept unused

 

Poet lies bemused, haltered arts stay

Vibrant in darkness yet dim during day

Stary, the muse sings , a nightly fay

Guiding her poet, in her lunar sway

 

Thus poet stray, these laws not hold thee

Dive, stroke hard against that strifeful sea

Moon above, create, let worlds witted be

Sleep is for the mourning, so dry that coffee

See, These Ships Sink

These ships are sinking, we must find a shore secure

Sure, these boats have carried us as is known in lore

Yet these husks are rotten, brim ragged of holes

Sending these sculls to depths, drowning all clinging souls

 

So save our souls, in a meaning clear

Amend our ardor, truth without smear

Rescue our reason, rend rectitude right

Salvage our spirit, redeem us from the trite

 

On these waters, we words once meant something

Yet these swells of culture were sadly perverting

So on these oceans of life, new words must sail anew

For under these depths, we must sleep dead, there accrue

Busy by a Bee

Arrested by imbued grandeur’s glands 

As by a buzz I was stung you see

Nerved to rave, weaving strands

worths verbose, all this by a bee


For that fury desired for me

To write in a wry array

That pollen packer set free

That which would stay


Dear Apis aptly, stare 

See melius melior be

Yet for chap’s sake fair

Leave me instigation free


What, Why, Who?

Where were we

Whither hath we waved

Why words wobble wide

When works witted we craved


Where are we

Oh how a mind can wander

Over such seas and hills

Under mole’s mountains maunder      


When will we

Contained ever be

Such weather wonders

If we ever a stable sea


How may we

Catch dreams fled

On mares, knight roam

To there be led