Sometimes I write things other than my screenplay, like poetry, or prose, or just about my thoughts and feelings. I like writing.
I wrote this earlier, and thought I'd share it with you all. It's a bit more of a beat poem than any thing else.
Retrospect
Fingers dancing on keys
pinky flesh stark against black
hard plastic beating
beating
beating
like the rythm of a song no one knows
or would rather forget
spilling spindles of soul
seeping suspicious suffering
telling tales of times spent wandering
on journeys she's not sure if she should regret.
Faces appear in the recesses
achromitised
blurred at the edges
like they were never really there
or never important enough that she should care
to impart them to memory
for perusal at a later date
if ever she dared to sort fact from fiction
and view herself retrospectively
with wisdom and the acumen
to know to reserve sympathy
and not play the victim.
Always it was him that was the anathema
a place to lay the blame
for all the pain that she wrote
a face to draw circles around
for the proverbial darts
a foundation for all that came to pass
so that if she were to be judged she had this
ready made scapegoat
an excuse like no other
and that's all that it was
an excuse
an evasion
a subversion of guilt
a guise to cover immaturity
that granted no vindication
and was never justification
for the crimes she carried out.
Now the monitor blares at her
until her eyes start to tear
and she can't hold off sleep
or ignore the aching in her neck
for one second longer
even just to check
that the wording flows in that last bit of dialogue
as though it was actually said
and not just words that she wrote
hoping they'd one day be read
as though it was actually said
by this person she's realised she was
or with the heartbreak
she's realised she caused.
She was the hellion
not to say she was the only one
but she was never the victim
and in the fog caused by her coping mechanisms
it's hard to discern
just who was more Machiavellian
who was the slave and who was the master?
or mistress, as it were?
or was there never any depth
to the dispute
to the betrayal?
was it all just in her head?
feelings created for attention
that she needed for circumvention
of what she really felt
or to compenstate rather than avoid
for the six year deep affection void
her parents lumped her with.
But it's hardly fairer to blame them
just another excuse for self destruction
and let's face it, that's just much more fun
life's easier if you don't care where you're going
or who else is cumming
or what they'll think in the morning
or whether they'll call you again
it's hard to consider these things
when you're consumed by narcisism
and easy to be convinced
that you're the hottest place to be
the club everyone wants to be in
just don't think about how they'll eventually leave
that's what boys want
and you don't mean a thing.
Her fingers dance on the keys
pinky flesh stark against black
hard plastic beating
beating
beating
like the rythm of a song she's slowly relearning
realising she had the words wrong
so she's flipping, turning
rearranging the soul
reassessing the lies, the guilt, the betrayal
retelling tales of times spent wandering
the streets now barely visible
the faces out of focus
the words she never spoke
the life that she preempted
the smell of sweat and sex and smoke
she stumbles close to falling
on the edge of herself
but she pauses
hits the 'x'
goes to sleep instead
and leaves the delving
only for the time being
after all
self discovery is tiring.
Anyone else have any random bits of writing they'd like to share?
I wrote this earlier, and thought I'd share it with you all. It's a bit more of a beat poem than any thing else.
Retrospect
Fingers dancing on keys
pinky flesh stark against black
hard plastic beating
beating
beating
like the rythm of a song no one knows
or would rather forget
spilling spindles of soul
seeping suspicious suffering
telling tales of times spent wandering
on journeys she's not sure if she should regret.
Faces appear in the recesses
achromitised
blurred at the edges
like they were never really there
or never important enough that she should care
to impart them to memory
for perusal at a later date
if ever she dared to sort fact from fiction
and view herself retrospectively
with wisdom and the acumen
to know to reserve sympathy
and not play the victim.
Always it was him that was the anathema
a place to lay the blame
for all the pain that she wrote
a face to draw circles around
for the proverbial darts
a foundation for all that came to pass
so that if she were to be judged she had this
ready made scapegoat
an excuse like no other
and that's all that it was
an excuse
an evasion
a subversion of guilt
a guise to cover immaturity
that granted no vindication
and was never justification
for the crimes she carried out.
Now the monitor blares at her
until her eyes start to tear
and she can't hold off sleep
or ignore the aching in her neck
for one second longer
even just to check
that the wording flows in that last bit of dialogue
as though it was actually said
and not just words that she wrote
hoping they'd one day be read
as though it was actually said
by this person she's realised she was
or with the heartbreak
she's realised she caused.
She was the hellion
not to say she was the only one
but she was never the victim
and in the fog caused by her coping mechanisms
it's hard to discern
just who was more Machiavellian
who was the slave and who was the master?
or mistress, as it were?
or was there never any depth
to the dispute
to the betrayal?
was it all just in her head?
feelings created for attention
that she needed for circumvention
of what she really felt
or to compenstate rather than avoid
for the six year deep affection void
her parents lumped her with.
But it's hardly fairer to blame them
just another excuse for self destruction
and let's face it, that's just much more fun
life's easier if you don't care where you're going
or who else is cumming
or what they'll think in the morning
or whether they'll call you again
it's hard to consider these things
when you're consumed by narcisism
and easy to be convinced
that you're the hottest place to be
the club everyone wants to be in
just don't think about how they'll eventually leave
that's what boys want
and you don't mean a thing.
Her fingers dance on the keys
pinky flesh stark against black
hard plastic beating
beating
beating
like the rythm of a song she's slowly relearning
realising she had the words wrong
so she's flipping, turning
rearranging the soul
reassessing the lies, the guilt, the betrayal
retelling tales of times spent wandering
the streets now barely visible
the faces out of focus
the words she never spoke
the life that she preempted
the smell of sweat and sex and smoke
she stumbles close to falling
on the edge of herself
but she pauses
hits the 'x'
goes to sleep instead
and leaves the delving
only for the time being
after all
self discovery is tiring.
Anyone else have any random bits of writing they'd like to share?
