You realized later that life was giving you a poetry lesson. Teaching you that just because the first line came out right didn't mean the rest of the poem would. Sometimes the metaphors would refuse to come through. The imagery, no matter how hard you tried to paint it, would just not appear right. You would look everywhere for the perfect punchline to end the poem, but you would not find one. Life was telling you that just because you thought you were good with words did not mean that they would always come to you whenever you needed them. And sometimes, you just couldn’t write a poem, just like you could not write your life into poetry.
There is a rawness and a tangibility to this struggle, asserting itself like a shawl over the spirit and engendering a gradual fading away of the substantial, particular (in)carnation we occupy. Essentially, we become apologists in an oppression we neither deserve nor comprehend but in which we are too lost to realize the extent of our performance in the disservice.
I shout your name into the dark night A forest of shadows And there is no hyena around to respond Where are you!?
I shout your name into the dark night A forest of shadows And there is no hyena around to respond Where are you!?
"Love potions are just aphrodisiacs Viagra is how many minutes of happiness?"
I shout your name into the dark night A forest of shadows And there is no hyena around to respond Where are you!?
