Time For Sunshine
Dear Honey Smacks:
There's no need to pretend. Your first three ingredients are not honey. Remember when you used to be called "Sugar Smacks"? That was a much more honest epithet. "Dextrose Smacks" would suit you sooner than "Honey Smacks."
Whatever.
Haters gonna hate.
I like me my dextrose and BHT freshness.
I haven't written a poem in eons! I don't even know how long an eon is! I can't even spell eons! I wonder how much I've written about how little I write. That right there is a meta-vortex of circular impotence.
For some reason, my Honey Smacks reminded me of the smell of cigarettes. I'm not sure if I like that.
"Work hard; play hard." That's what I tell my students. Strangely enough, I learn a lot from what I tell my students. For example, I'm working on becoming an actuary. My first step is to relearn probability. I have my book from when I took it in college. Or maybe when I was teaching it? I don't know. Anywho, I've been relearning shtuff, and I sometimes get stuck and want to give up. However, just like I've told my students, I stare at the blasted page and scribble until something works. It's a pretty good method.
I recently and briefly met a bloke who suggested the idea of velociraptor bacon. He was joking about how his dark secret is that, if dinosaurs were still alive, he'd be given to eating them. I have no idea how that is a dark secret. That is a marvelous idea – especially at the thought of bacon. I started thinking about all the other delicious things I could eat: brachiosaurus steaks, plesiosaurus filet, velociraptor bacon obviously, and all other sorts of delectable dishes. It's totally what would have happened if dinosaurs still roamed. If there's an animal, we humans will find a way of making it a meal.
I love food.
Admittedly, I'm boring myself, but it's good just to have my words moving. I always want to be authoring some glorious tale, but my effort does not at all match my desire. I used to put in hours upon hours of focus on writing. I'm a has-been.
Not really. I'm sort of a future-tense-will-again-have-be-been-is.
WERBEL! That blasted codger. He's collecting dust, but he's still the same age. Torm is pretty cute. I don't know him very well yet though. Allison is fiery! She seems a little unpredictable to me at times, but she has such a good heart. Alabaster is some strange mess. Chirrratka – if I were a bad guy – would be my favorite. He's full of madness and conviction. I don't know what they're all doing though. Megan told me to reread all that I've written. Wives are smart; listen to them. I haven't begun to reread yet, but I'm inching closer.
The sunshine should come out now. Not exactly right NOW now – since it's 9 pm – but it should come out during the day now. The past few days have been frigid and grey. BLAH.
I haven't written a poem in too long. It almost feels like a memory instead of blood in my veins. I miss my rhymes. I miss my turns of phrase. I've been some strange kind of timid. I feel muted and greyscale: all the action still takes place, but the tones, tension, vibrance, and what have you are missing.
I felt today there was a tone of greyness singing loud,
As if my color wheel would ne'er be 'gain allowed.
The swirling inks had settled to a miry pace of mute,
And all the vibratory notes been taken from my flute.
I s'pose 't'ad been a weakening of mind or heart perhaps.
Perhaps 't'ad been just mere a call for chastening of slaps.
I feared the words; I feared they may just wither in a blend.
I feared my words would disappear and little more than spend.
The grander schemes seemed all to daunt into a childish hide.
I do my best to reconvene and, thereafter, to chide.
Meh. It's not dead, but it's weak.
There's no need to pretend. Your first three ingredients are not honey. Remember when you used to be called "Sugar Smacks"? That was a much more honest epithet. "Dextrose Smacks" would suit you sooner than "Honey Smacks."
Whatever.
Haters gonna hate.
I like me my dextrose and BHT freshness.
I haven't written a poem in eons! I don't even know how long an eon is! I can't even spell eons! I wonder how much I've written about how little I write. That right there is a meta-vortex of circular impotence.
For some reason, my Honey Smacks reminded me of the smell of cigarettes. I'm not sure if I like that.
"Work hard; play hard." That's what I tell my students. Strangely enough, I learn a lot from what I tell my students. For example, I'm working on becoming an actuary. My first step is to relearn probability. I have my book from when I took it in college. Or maybe when I was teaching it? I don't know. Anywho, I've been relearning shtuff, and I sometimes get stuck and want to give up. However, just like I've told my students, I stare at the blasted page and scribble until something works. It's a pretty good method.
I recently and briefly met a bloke who suggested the idea of velociraptor bacon. He was joking about how his dark secret is that, if dinosaurs were still alive, he'd be given to eating them. I have no idea how that is a dark secret. That is a marvelous idea – especially at the thought of bacon. I started thinking about all the other delicious things I could eat: brachiosaurus steaks, plesiosaurus filet, velociraptor bacon obviously, and all other sorts of delectable dishes. It's totally what would have happened if dinosaurs still roamed. If there's an animal, we humans will find a way of making it a meal.
I love food.
Admittedly, I'm boring myself, but it's good just to have my words moving. I always want to be authoring some glorious tale, but my effort does not at all match my desire. I used to put in hours upon hours of focus on writing. I'm a has-been.
Not really. I'm sort of a future-tense-will-again-have-be-been-is.
WERBEL! That blasted codger. He's collecting dust, but he's still the same age. Torm is pretty cute. I don't know him very well yet though. Allison is fiery! She seems a little unpredictable to me at times, but she has such a good heart. Alabaster is some strange mess. Chirrratka – if I were a bad guy – would be my favorite. He's full of madness and conviction. I don't know what they're all doing though. Megan told me to reread all that I've written. Wives are smart; listen to them. I haven't begun to reread yet, but I'm inching closer.
The sunshine should come out now. Not exactly right NOW now – since it's 9 pm – but it should come out during the day now. The past few days have been frigid and grey. BLAH.
I haven't written a poem in too long. It almost feels like a memory instead of blood in my veins. I miss my rhymes. I miss my turns of phrase. I've been some strange kind of timid. I feel muted and greyscale: all the action still takes place, but the tones, tension, vibrance, and what have you are missing.
I felt today there was a tone of greyness singing loud,
As if my color wheel would ne'er be 'gain allowed.
The swirling inks had settled to a miry pace of mute,
And all the vibratory notes been taken from my flute.
I s'pose 't'ad been a weakening of mind or heart perhaps.
Perhaps 't'ad been just mere a call for chastening of slaps.
I feared the words; I feared they may just wither in a blend.
I feared my words would disappear and little more than spend.
The grander schemes seemed all to daunt into a childish hide.
I do my best to reconvene and, thereafter, to chide.
Meh. It's not dead, but it's weak.
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