Repetition

Hello my imaginary audience. I need your support this night.

Because The Pretty is not enough (it never is).

And because sometimes I feel incapable and completely useless. It's hateful when one feels like that more than once in a day, in two different situations.

Like the incident with the Jordanian the the Fish.

And being left in charge of my siblings but it's hard to be in charge when you yourself don't live up to your ideals and even if you did, there is a niggling sense that they won't take that example but remember and reuse the old one.

Siblings are great recyclers.

And I feel that our friendship is strong enough to withstand this (stupid, completely avoidably) storm, but I can't help but feel like the Titanic in its pre-iceberg moments.

You understand.

And maybe a poet can't be a poet unless there are enormous amounts of misery in his life.

So here I am, on my way to poetry.

the path to poetry is cruel
laced with lies of no
small size like
willow trees:believable
but capable of other.. things

like pain.
and maybe i am masochistic
and maybe sadism is attracted
but i am

green today, a chirp of joy like a cricket song

but the cricket is a passenger
on this great titanic
and i operate the radio
that leads us to our doom.

but there's always room
for improvement.

Hey. Maybe I am headed for great things. But maybe great things are like icebergs. And maybe I am stuck on the Titanic theme. But maybe the Titanic was great.

And maybe my heart aches.

Oh. And my brother and I might owe $2,000 dollars to some lady because of an accident that was our fault. Oops.

And thus my brother falls from (his own)grace and breaks my mother's heart with his calloused words and I sit here before a screen and am helpless, completely clueless, to help.

And my father is still fishing at ten o'clock at night.

Misery brings out poetry. I feel another poem coming on.

And my heart ache has transferred to my head. That pounding again, those pounding needles.

Hah. And maybe this is a typical teenage blog, just a little more poetic.

All right. Good night.

Maybe joy will come with the morning, but the night is grieving.

It's strange, how I love both equally.

All right. Good night.