Monday, January 24, 2011

Coitus


That word is the meanest word I could muster in writing (typing?) for now. It's summoned with the sole intention of summarizing my feelings at my own pathetic inability to produce a poem for the longest time. It is not that words fail me. It is not that only one word decided to remain true to me. Look, they are there. Yes, they all are. These words, floating in a weightless and ethereal form, continue to taunt and tease me up to a point of deliriousness sometimes. I know them, though they are yet to be born, so intimately. Inside and out. Black on white. White noise. Black void. I have made a pact with these words. Or were they the ones who initiated it? My children. Creation. Promised that they will always be true to themselves and to me. Uphold the Word. Words. Me. Of course I am aware of the flaw in this promise (am I not the seeing, the hearing, the loving?) but I do not mind. When the time comes for the scroll to be rolled back up to point No. 1, they that came from me will return back to me. Evidences of a solitary wanton to be made known: the essence of divinity.

0 poetic mutterings: