There are days when I feel bleh. I am not one to curse, but sometimes, I sympathize with the sheer oversight of appropriate vocabulary that causes people to blurt out profanity. Sometimes, I heartbreakingly stare at an empty word template- hoping that the heavens supply streams of Shakespeare-esque poetry. Something like:
Silence is deafening
Silence is noise-some
Silence is quiet
But not quite peaceful
Silence is silence
There isn’t always a depth to it
Sometimes, it just is
This is not Shakespeare. I just wrote it. I’d like to write something more eloquently expressed; more ‘poet’, more ‘artist’ and less human. Maybe I ask too much of God but maybe i don’t.
So whenever the proverbial shit hits the fan, I bathe in it. I let it sink into the pores of my skin and my melancholic heart. I revel in the confusion and magnitude of regret and I sometimes hate it. Most times I don’t. I need it; it fuels my need to be lazy. It fuels my comfort in reminiscing the “good old days”. Sometimes, it makes me a better poet, I think. I think of a beautiful mind like Sylvia Plath’s. And sometimes, as I rant endlessly on an empty template, my weirdness makes more sense. The need to see myself in Times New Roman overwhelms me, then I remember my preference for Comic Sans. But Comic Sans is too unserious. This is no joke; this is a couch and a therapist. This is me on Xanax, and Zoloft, and whatever it is that works.
Sometimes, I just want to breathe
Sometimes, I want to laugh at life
the same way she laughs at me
Then I remember that life has PMS
And it’ll pass away
To ease the burden