Here’s something I wrote 5 minutes ago. Don’t ask. I don’t fully understand it either.
Little girl, I know you,
I know well how you think–
what lies underneath that face of yours,
that haunts you in your sleep.
Little girl, I know you,
I know the thoughts you keep,
away from all to protect,
though you wish for them to seep.
Little girl, you’ve seen me,
you simply do not remember where,
for they took you away from me,
away from all my care.
Little girl, I’ll take you some other time,
when those who took you beg me to take you back.
And when you wake from your deep sleep,
you’ll see the light shining through the crack.
I guess this means my writing’s slowly coming back? The free flow. The dam’s breaking. I’ll start with poetry first. No fictional stories yet.
Song I was listening to while writing this:
Apparently I cannot let go of Allie, Hector, The Clown, Vernicus, and Miggs. I’ve written about a certain Mr. Calloway in the supposed sequel to Keeping Her in the Light, and even him I can’t let go of. I will give Mr. Calloway a chance and include him in another story, but Allie, Hector, and the rest have to be left alone to lead their own lives, different in every reader’s mind.
As a kind of closure, this is all I know of their end. I am unsure as to the minor events which led them to this major one.
Sometimes, when he was sure she was asleep, he’d bend over and reach for her face, touching her cheek to check for tears. Each time, his fingers came back wet, and every touch only resulted to the pain and sorrow of the kind of company he could never have. The kind that contained full consent, full love. The kind that was simply full. For there was loneliness amidst company, and company amidst loneliness.
Maybe one day she’d stay awake and feel his touch on her cheek travel to her eyes. Maybe one day she’d wake up. Maybe one day he’d set her free.
But as of now she sleeps. And he withdraws his hand from her face as he stares into the darkness, taking in emptiness once more.
Emptiness was the only thing he knew. He had been filled once, but now even that had been disposed of. He was the cause of his own emptiness, and he had killed the only one who had ever filled him.
His dry life could only be wetted through with tears.
I’ve been looking through past notebooks in an attempt to find myself again through my works. It’s funny how there are some poems in them that I don’t remember writing. The meanings of these poems are ambiguous to me, almost distant, as if I had nothing to do with them and their existence.
Another thing I noticed: In my works, there’s usually always a focus on a door. It’s quite evident in Keeping Her in the Light in which the doors symbolized transitions and sudden changes that just had to be dealt with.
Here’s a little something I wrote a year ago:
There’s an urge to close the door,
to keep it shut,
to lock the door.
To throw a key into a fiery pit,
to seal the key,
in the flames that sit.
But there’s a stopper–a savior, I suppose?
–who hinders such isolation
and the darker recesses it explores,
in the mind, exposed.
There was a man without a job,
only a purpose burned inside him.
He sought what people left behind,
and with a sort of passion, he’d read them.
In the objects, the doodles, the carvings,
even in the graffiti,
he’d read what they would say.
Only he could see.
He’d read a watch and see the organizer,
he’d read the doodles and see one who thinks outside the box,
he’d read the crushed flowers and see rejection,
of anger in display.
He’d spend his days reading,
either in the coffee shop or out,
looking for the left-overs,
peeling them inside-out.
He’d look at them, he’d look in them,
he always looked inside,
for it was where all the words were found,
huddled, controlled, stifled, forgotten in the flight.
Here are a couple of videos featuring Def Jam Poetry. Interesting stuff.
This one shows us the importance of words as tools that influence us into making a positive difference. Gives poets a whole new perspective. The turning point of the poem begins at 1:28.
“Children of Children”
Oscar Brown Jr. might as well be a legend. Listen to the flow of words, the feel of the words. He has an ability to coat his perspective with words that influence, words that stick. And he ends with a question. The answer: silence then applause.
I know where to get inspiration from now.