Poetry.
I’ve recently hit a mental block with Lycoris Radiata, the temporary name for the book I’m writing. The block stems mostly from feelings of inadequacy regarding my skills, life, and all of the writing I’ve done over the course of my life up to now; in some ways I don’t feel I have the right to go on, much less write and express. Yet the desire echoes and I’m allowing myself to give in.
With that in mind, I have realized that I’m inexperienced in general – while this may not matter specifically, there are people whom have never written beyond the basics that go on to write eloquent novels, I feel I must work up to this a bit more; I need a basis to build from. Enter poetry. I’ve never been a poet, and have written very little in this department. My poetry does not rhyme yet it has reason. It does not follow meter or any standards set in stone by those that precede me. Yet I must write.
For the time being I will write poetry until I feel the confidence to continue with my book.
Depress // Decompress.
This is a modification of something I wrote two years ago.
My Dear Arsonist, what dear secrets we shared. Intimacy and hatred hand-in-hand, a beautiful tragedy. Enveloped by hope and things left unsaid.
Mistaken for that which you are not, My Dear Arsonist. Promises of deliverance, affection and torment. With kerosene and matches you lit the fire in my heart. Left a victim of your inferno.
My Dear Arsonist, the flames in this body have extinguished. Desolation – I disgust you. Swallow my desire
Eager apprehension, everlasting.
I breakdown and allow my emotions to engulf me, to drive this vessel from task to task. It is no surprise then that I found myself in a bathtub screaming out and asking questions I know would not receive responses.
This is dedicated to him.