Thoughts flow and ebb like the tides. Words at one point deep and meaningful grow faded and hollow.Today was not a good day; Too much energy spent upon the alter of the slave wage. We all fancy ourselves something more than the sum of our parts. We all will ourselves to dream in color.
I was haunted lastnight when sleep claimed me like a wounded animal lurching on a busy highway. I was reminded of why I disdain slumber; Dreams are found to be haunting visions..... visions clawing at me. I awoke 3 times lastnight with the exspanse of only a 3 and a half hour bedtime. Work drove home the physical beating further into my pain wracked body. Fatigue languised me through out the day only to leave crawling back to my humble abode.
The only solisis gained was in the creation of yet another peice of art. I only have so many hours in the day to drain myself into my work. The art I make is as it should be, personal and a window into things beyond even my recollections.
I know the dawn will bring the old familiar aches. I will once again stare into the sullen, tired, brooding eyes of a man abandoned. A man broken and so desprately try to heal and find himself again. A man whose rediscovered wonderous things long left dormant since childhood, and fearsom things long regretted even being borne with in his days of rage passed.
I've come to understand the my masculinity is sond; The deeds and actions of the past can account to my nature in such things. But to great folly I find myself struggeling to embrace the purer asspect of my mind. The seeking of who am I now. The journey is not over yet; After so much loss and gain I still feel the sting of regret. I miss the eyes of a lover long beyond my reach, yet still with eyesight.
It was once said the best slave is one that thinks they are free. Am I free? The yoke was shed for nothing, the burden lifted with out releif applied in return. I long for things I cannot ever have again in my life. That longing curries the fear of reaching out to only renew the desire. To relight the fires that burn white. I am neither spirit nor flesh, I am sorrow.
IN MY CRAFT OR SULLEN ART
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art
Poem By : Dylan Thomas
Escape, escape oh lad in the mirror I did see.
Your sad eyes of blue yet do sing.
The song is sad and sorrow filled.
The lament is short and tried.
The dreams that come, fragment thoughts heavy milled.
The journey you do not abide.
For the image in the shining surface I do see is nothing more than a hard reflection of a boy I call me.
One of my poems. ( no name ) Just another ramble, another rant.
Speak your words to me, let them be soft as a kiss. The touch of another's sweet caress is the touch I do miss.
I was haunted lastnight when sleep claimed me like a wounded animal lurching on a busy highway. I was reminded of why I disdain slumber; Dreams are found to be haunting visions..... visions clawing at me. I awoke 3 times lastnight with the exspanse of only a 3 and a half hour bedtime. Work drove home the physical beating further into my pain wracked body. Fatigue languised me through out the day only to leave crawling back to my humble abode.
The only solisis gained was in the creation of yet another peice of art. I only have so many hours in the day to drain myself into my work. The art I make is as it should be, personal and a window into things beyond even my recollections.
I know the dawn will bring the old familiar aches. I will once again stare into the sullen, tired, brooding eyes of a man abandoned. A man broken and so desprately try to heal and find himself again. A man whose rediscovered wonderous things long left dormant since childhood, and fearsom things long regretted even being borne with in his days of rage passed.
I've come to understand the my masculinity is sond; The deeds and actions of the past can account to my nature in such things. But to great folly I find myself struggeling to embrace the purer asspect of my mind. The seeking of who am I now. The journey is not over yet; After so much loss and gain I still feel the sting of regret. I miss the eyes of a lover long beyond my reach, yet still with eyesight.
It was once said the best slave is one that thinks they are free. Am I free? The yoke was shed for nothing, the burden lifted with out releif applied in return. I long for things I cannot ever have again in my life. That longing curries the fear of reaching out to only renew the desire. To relight the fires that burn white. I am neither spirit nor flesh, I am sorrow.
IN MY CRAFT OR SULLEN ART
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art
Poem By : Dylan Thomas
Escape, escape oh lad in the mirror I did see.
Your sad eyes of blue yet do sing.
The song is sad and sorrow filled.
The lament is short and tried.
The dreams that come, fragment thoughts heavy milled.
The journey you do not abide.
For the image in the shining surface I do see is nothing more than a hard reflection of a boy I call me.
One of my poems. ( no name ) Just another ramble, another rant.
Speak your words to me, let them be soft as a kiss. The touch of another's sweet caress is the touch I do miss.