Words come to mind
Yet the do not do justice
To the feelings deep inside
Fading, faltering, forgetful
Countless and simple
Yet confounded and dismayed
She lies in wake for his presence
Never to come again
The tones and sounds, lyrics intermixed, what song is this…
What music claims to know my heart?
Yet here it is fully displayed with a simple strum of the guitar.
As I ply myself with less than spirits,
yet strong enough to bring the consciouslessness I desire,
I yearn to produce words and lyrics, sentences and paragraphs
of beauty, of horror, of the two intertwined;
as the greatest art is not beauty or horror,
but a depiction that does not separate the two.
For life is not either/or
It is both and all
We live not one way or the other but as hypocrites of all
Lyrics require a song
It’s almost as if I can’t
Because I haven’t heard the tune yet
With some of the words that pour forth
From my finger tips,
There is a rhythm in my head, at least to the words that come out.
Little do I know if this rhythm is heard by anyone else.
Little do I know if this rhythm becomes an undercurrent in the minds of those who engage with my work
(I say my work because I want to sound important, as if my musings, ponderings, ramblings, tangents or digressions amount to anything of worth)
Worth is what I seek; it is what I hope for.
Worth is what I hope to create.
Yet what is worth, but what we deem it
If I can create worth enough to satisfy my appetite, that is worth enough for me.
(or so I believe)
But, for me is different than what is enough for you, or her, or him.
Worth is taught from birth to rely on the outsider to determine
Or is it intrinsic?
What is possibly intrinsically valuable?
Gold prices soar and crash. As do stocks, diamonds, gas, orange and paper futures…
Nothing is intrinsically of worth.
Except you and what you deem to be of worth.
Sure you may agree with others that all human beings are of worth,
but this is not true to you until you embrace it, until you decide it is truth to you.
Is this relativistic, am I saying there is no pure truth?
I don’t know
I’m a bit drunk, and slightly high.
But isn’t that the excuse I always use . . .?