2:12 AM, Tuesday, July 27, 2010 Frustrated Bullshit
I feel like I should be able to put down some insight here and now.
Fill the page with things that mean more than they say,
Things that suggest the deeper truths.
But I’m not a poet.
I’m not a story-writer.
I’m not a genius.
Not when it comes to this means of expression.
How do writers do it,
Eloquently depict it all with such resonance?
They strike accord with those unexplored and unspoken things beneath,
Those, somehow known and shared by all.
With words of all things.
Meanwhile I sit doing dumb manipulation of conceptual definitions,
Clicking the synonym button every minute,
Hoping for a little spark to lead me,
Resorting to the same stupid rhythm and layout, as if it will add something.
All in all, missing the point.
I guess that’s why I settle for philosophy—it doesn’t require resonance,
Only its opposite: cold wordy dissection, classification, redefinition
That merely skirts or chases, or even demeans, the transcending core.
I try to pin, grasp, grip, control, contain, inspect, what can only be traversed, ridden, journeyed, followed,
To describe backward what can only be lived forward,
And even in this my work is incomplete, confused, incoherent.
This is not inspired.
This is not inspiring.
This is an attempt at something far from intimate.
This is bullshit.