Repairman

I was a castle, made of sand,
Made of millions of grains.
I stood guard, proud and tall,
Until I was washed away.
The grains spread out and separated,
My castle walls torn down.
The rooms that I had decorated,
Sent to sea to drown.
Then, planlessly I drifted,
Undesired and ungifted,
Until the ocean shifted,
And a single grain was found.
Then, you rebuilt my castle walls,
And brought me back from sea.
And you sought out to find them all,
The grains that once were me.
Now every time I feel despair,
When I remember washing away,
I know that I can be repaired,
And time can still be made.
So should your castle ever fall,
I'll fix up your broken walls,
And collect your scattered pieces all.
If I have to search the entire sea,
I'll do it for you,
Like you did it for me:
Unconditionally.

A Tiny Sketchbook

So I just wrote a poem. Or rather forced it out of me. I quite dislike it. It's just missing something, that I'm sure my old poems used to have when I was still feeling creative and ached to write. But then again, maybe that depends on how you look at it. Maybe I used to be able to write better poems because I didn't give a fuck about how it turned out. Instead of what I was doing now, weighing words against eachother, changing sentences, rearranging, staring at the page, wondering what it was that I wanted to say.

A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.

Things I couldn't even share here.

I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.

Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR

Where Do You Wander?

Where do you wander?

When every second feels like an hour

When every moment is eternal

When you're lost in thoughts,

Lost in contemplation

In concern

When you burn

Where do you wander?

When you've emptied yourself of everything

When you've looked for yourself everywhere

When you can't breathe,

Can't oppose desperation

When you're inconsolable

When you're uncontrollable

I wandered the world, observed it in words

I trusted my eyes, and the whispers I heard

I dismissed what I learned,

I spent what I earned,

I lost myself

Until you returned

Where did you wander?

Incompetence

Seemingly, late night rants is what I'm capable of these days.

As usual I can't sleep and this time it's for... different reasons. I've hit this period of weird insomnia. I'm just not friends with sleeping, from time to time. I don't know. Or well, I do know. My head is just too busy THINKING, that I can't possibly focus on DOING, and making anything actually HAPPEN. Instead I stay awake over every piece of dread I can possibly collect from my own head and heart, and maybe if I ponder them just ENOUGH, it might not just keep me awake for the night; it might just keep me awake for the rest of the WEEK. And yes, this CAPS use is necessary to convey my point.

I don't even know why coming here soothes me. It's just what I do whenever I'm going through a... crisis, or what to call it. I don't know a lot of things, these days. Everything feels unplanned. The future should be shining brightly ahead of me. Instead it's like this massive, poet-eating void of non-knowing. I've lived my whole life with a plan. Even when I thought I didn't have a plan; I definitely had SOME kind of plan; this time, everything is out there, everything is open, everything is closed. Geez, I fucking worry about everything. If I was a friend of mine, instead of being me, I might slap myself in the face and tell me to get off my high horses and stop feeling so goddamn fucking sorry for myself. What can I say? I can't help it. It's my "weak and sensitive nature". No, seriously, I can't relax until I've just SOLVED everything. And if that's your current main goal in life, imagine not being able to solve ANYTHING. Imagine not being able to solve your unemployment; your fear of abandonment, your family issues, what to do with your pets. Not being able to solve school, not being able to solve your writer's block, not being able to solve your insomnia. Not being able to solve the fact that you're considered a bad friend. Not being able to solve your recent passive obsessiveness with TV series that you can't quite explain except that it gives you a temporary moment of RELIEF. Relief from the guilt you feel about your inability to solve your given situation. Relief from all the chores you put off and all the achievements you couldn't accomplish. I'm in the middle of some weird fucking age crisis, or something, bloody hell knows what it is. I feel weak. I feel exposed. I feel disliked. I feel unloved. I feel alone. I feel completely, utterly, fucking INCOMPETENT and POWERLESS.

I guess the only reason I feel soothed by spilling this out into a blank text box online is that the written word doesn't judge me. Doesn't call me cowardly. Doesn't mock me. If, you don't count the fact that I've been dying to write something more CREATIVE without it ever spilling into this blank, empty, text box online. Let's say we don't count that. Let's say those veins of creativity are still flowing and are going to just pop open when they're ready. Because I swear to no particular deity, if those veins don't pop open soon, I'm going to have to resign my calling as a self-appointed world observer a.k.a. verbal describer of personal, subjective emotion and thought.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Yep, I'm watching LOST. I can't even write a bloody blog post without the comforting background sound of the TV, assuring me that there are voices in the room, presence in the room, that the room isn't empty, that it's not just me, it's not just my voices.

The sun's up. I've got to be in university in... 3 hours. We'll see if I've got it in me to wrestle my own arch nemesis, called Sleep.

POET IN THE CHIPPED GLASS JAR