Thursday, March 02, 2006

Writing as Reality

"Some say you have to be outside to write
that writing is a sensual experience that must be shared in communion with nature
I say writing is a reality
Writing is the essence that my soul breathes to recreate reality
and bring forth inconsistencies
Some say that I am angry
That I have a fire that burns that must be quenched
Some say I don't write love poems
I don't write love poems..."

Often times when you tell people that you like to write poetry or do spoken word, they expect you to have an arsenal of love poems at your disposal.

As if the extent of human emotions, experiences and existance is love. As if love is the most powerful human interaction that we have. I don't believe so. Yes I have experienced love, yes I feel love. It's because of those reasons that I choose to write something else...

Anyone can write a love poem. We have all done a few now and again. It's easy to make bad poetry that deals with love. I don't write about love in the traditional sense. It is my love for humanity, my disappointment in what we have done with our gifts that causes me to write about what I write...

My writing is dark, deep and ephemeral. I like to say that it exists in the eternal. The true measure of love is being able to call out ourselves for our flaws so that we may attempt to fix them. So in a way I do write love poems, just not in the way you would expect them to be written.

Of course in my past relationships this has proven to be an issue. Anytime I am in a relationship with someone, and they find out about my hobby they jump on the chance for me to write something about them. The easy answer would be that you really wouldn't want me to write about you. If you appear in my work, its usually not a good thing.

Of course, people don't like to hear simple answers. People want to hear what they want to hear....

I did attempt to write a love poem here is what I ended up writing (still a work in progress)

"It was the stir of the echoes of a dream
Ghost of a whisper rhythmic mystic nightmare
Scent that lingered on the tip of my tongue
Shivering to the chill of a long forgotten blizzard in cherry blossom spring
I'm not half the man I wish I was when I was...
It was that type of love thing
That first sight fling
that only a glance of those eyes could bring..."
There is still the darkness, the longing, the despair and hoping that things were different. I say writing is a reality...


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