To Be Spirited Away

Westward goes my heart, where I know yours will not be, and though the road may be long, that way I will go.

In swelling confusion I take my leave.

I want none of this anymore.

Take me to a cabin in the woods, where the only season in circle is winter and its chill.
Let me chop down trees to feed a fire and let me forage to feed my body.
Let me be alone, to read, and think

To feed my mind.

And please let me speak with you once in a while, when I get too lonely; be around

To help me feed my soul.

I want to sit in my own little cabin and defrost my heart by the fireside:

The years have covered it in frost.

T.DM

A piece of the moon

And if the crescent moon would lie,
A wretched fiend be it still,
I would shudder.
I would surely shudder.

I seem to be stuck in this cycle, or never ending stream of writer’s block. Will anyone offer advice?

I Walked a Mile

I walked a mile to the river’s edge,

i walked a mile alone,

and when I arrived collectively,

my heart had turned to stone.

I left my head, a while back,

perched upon a loon,

and when i found it had returned,

it returned in complete ruin.

My soul, it lingered, lonesome,

caught beneath a brook,

and when it crept back into place

t’was violent, t’was crook.

My eyes were caught onto a branch

and had not made it back,

they were no longer part of me,

no tears, the earth was black.

My limbs completely disengaged,

they fell, bare, to the ground…

T. DM

A Mode of Strength

A world away, apart, aghast,

entirely told of old,

is casting away a shadowy scent,

of tails of copious fibs.

Heave the mount up high, in might,

so the crash will crash outrageously,

leaving shards and scraps

that injure and prick,

and leave in a rush to strain.

T. DM

 

Rambling Ramblings

You’re supposed to just sit here and write; write what? I do not think that I have any words left. I have words left, actually, but I do not think I am capable of arranging them in fashionable manner or fashioning them into a smooth and structured sentence, that flows well for a reader. Lately all I have been writing, if I have been writing at all, is a jumbled mess of verbal vomit that makes absolutely no sense to anyone outside of my own mind; in fact it makes equally as little sense inside my own head.

 

Words, words and words (Photo credit: Arslan)

 

What to write, what to do, what to say. I am fearful that if I write exactly what comes to mind I might say something that I do not wish to. I believe that I choose my words carefully even in free-writing, (and I do this subconsciously even) so that I can keep up this air that I am mysterious or intelligent, when in fact I am a large utterance of insanity and I have a clouded mind. I wish to untangle my thoughts so that I can actually get some proper writing done; perhaps complete a whole poem or short story… what it would be like to write a novel! That would be absolutely incredible. What would it be like to hold it in my hand completed; not even published, though… just a pile of printed pages in my hands, ready to be edited. How I love editing. I love to carefully look at words and phrases; to arrange and rearrange them… to cut out uselessness and add in forgotten moments or plots or names or places or characters. What it would be like indeed.

 

Perhaps it will happen, though I believe that I am too lazy to sit there and think up an entire story. Or perhaps I have commitment issues? Either way I should, and hopefully will, overcome this and write my novel. What a way I have already come though I started to type with no words in my head. What a bunch of useless rambling, indeed.

 

T. DM

 

My Head is Broken

Whatever will i do with this head of mine,
it thinks of nothing,
no thoughts divine,
and when i come close
to pondering fare,
i sit and wonder,
i sit and stare.
Nothing ever comes easily
in this cognitive lump,
a heap of nothingness,
a neurological lump.
And if it ever decides to spark a fuse,
a thought, an idea,

i shall not refuse.

A Testament of Serendipity

He was always mesmerized by the sight of the inside of his mind, even though it was haunting to him, and even though she had made it that way. To claim that he had misguided his guard would be to claim that the sea tasted bitter, or that tears tasted sweet. And in his head, he fought and contested about whether she had been real or not.

Eyes are the mirror of the soul (Photo credit: rAmmoRRison)

Was she something that his mind had curated? And if she was, why would he create such a burden on his mind instead of imagining a lovely fortress of relief?

This must have been a sign, or a knot of regret tied so tightly around his neck. It felt like pure commotion, leaving a mess of stained courage on his sleeve.

In the most mysterious way, partial thoughts and endless conversation never made its departure from his heart. He no longer felt the need to be rid of the ache that overwhelmed his being. Instead he cradled the thought that no other person would ever feel this way; not about her.

In his mind, in his thoughts, in his heart and soul he kept the memory safe and within reach. He pulled it out on days when the rain fell and lightning shot up the sky in luminescent bursts. He pulled it out on blustery days, when the wind scooped his hat off his head and the harsh breeze brought with it the scent of cinnamon and burning wood. He even pulled it out during the season of the holly and the ivy, carefully unwrapping the memories so as not to tear its package to shreds.

But if the sun shone, he did not pull the memory out. This time belonged to him, alone. She gave it to him.

T. DM