Oh, and if the hard facts that there are fewer people reading literature isn't a dark enough cloud, there's this little tidbit from the study - more people are writing. Goody. More competition.
but those eyes are cold and black.
This story will have no happy ending
the demon muse has come back.
In my mind I see day kissed skin,
two bodies entwined as one.
But the story that he would tell
Is from a world with no sun.
My plot would have you call a lover.
But you simply will not obey.
You are every bit the hunter,
a spider that lures its prey
I loathe to write the lines that follow,
when he cowers in your heat.
I've been in this dark space before
No partner deserves such mistreat.
Little boy lost, little boy found
Little boy, in the ground.
Gotta grow up
gotta do you thing.
Little boy lost
Gonna be a big man.
Try to do the right thing
try to act the same.
Gonna marry your sweetheart
do the other on the side
Do the right thing
Gotta be a real man.
Look at all the pretty girls
Don’t you want a turn?
Stop doing what you do
Never should have gone that far
Little boy gotta learn
The lies they call a man.
I restarted Eric Maisel's The Creativity Book two weeks ago. One of the exercises for this week is to "Settle into mystery" and to do that, I am to write a poem a day for three days. Sure, I could write them and file them away in my laptop. But that's one of the problems I'm trying to address - the confidence to publish. Before my inner critic can talk me out of it, I send one raw and first draftish poem out into the everlasting world of the internet.
I don't know enough about physics
or the natural world
to say where this energy comes from.
I only know that I can feel the pull
when you are here
And when you are gone there is none.
You are a mass, a gravitational pull
At worst, a black hole
I’ve tried to balance too long.
When you are gone I move along
I have found the center
of my own universe. It is me.