::imaginative introspection::

Imagine that all life is an illusion. All that exists is this moment. No past, no future, each memory, every plan, a part of the illusion. Life, in a photograph.

Do you like the image of yourself?

Friday, September 19, 2008

on poetry

my words flow eagerly from my pen
spilling over page after page of brightness
Without ever finding just the right contrast
between black and white.  I could write
what one would call a 'happy' poem, but
Darkness is so much easier to write about
it's what we know. 
About darkness. . .
some said I was too young to have such thoughts. 
youth has nothing, nothing, to do with it. 
so I write my poetry.  
darkness spilling onto bright open pages
and sometimes it frightens me, 
once so much that I almost gave up writing altogether.
But, an empty paper called to me-
the pen laying innocently aside, demur,
urging me to lift it, and allow darkness to flow out again
into the light and there 
it didn't seem so scary or even so profound.  
Who can judge my poetry and not judge me?
so it stays locked and hidden. 
away from blinking eyes, for only mine to read. 
and still I squint at these blurred pages and wonder what troubled me so.  

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