The crickets chirp softly while the burling roll of traffic glides on by. It’s nearly silent tonight. Even the dogs rest idly by peering through the fence at nothing but space free to roam. I pity them, though love them dearly. This concrete jungle isn’t for them. They need green, they need freedom.
I look at them with heavy eyes, sullen with guilt for taking them…but where would they be if not here?
The catching gleam of sound, something grasps hold of the spirit and rides a current of passion enclenched within terror.
The heart beats rapidly, freely, gaining wings from the ecstasy of music cascading the soul.
Sweet melodies caress endearing spirits waiting to take flight.
This assignment, focused on Robert Frost’s “Design” and original poetry creation, served a dual purpose. As an assessment tool, it aimed to evaluate my understanding of poetic analysis, my ability to replicate and diverge from established forms (sonnet and free verse), and my capacity to articulate the impact of poetic structure. For my portfolio, the intent shifts to showcasing my evolving poetic voice and analytical skills, highlighting my ability to engage with complex themes like mortality and existential dread.
Weaknesses in my original work include a potential lack of nuanced language in my poems. While I attempted to capture a mood, the imagery may be generic. My free verse poem could have benefited from more deliberate line breaks and a stronger sense of rhythm, even without strict meter.
The feedback I received emphasized the strength of my analytical response to Frost’s poem, particularly my understanding of the poem’s thematic tension and structural choices. However, there was a suggestion to refine my poetry by focusing on more specific and evocative imagery.
In my portfolio, this piece will demonstrate my ability to analyze established poetry and create original works that engage with similar themes. It will showcase my understanding of poetic form and my developing ability to use language to create mood and convey meaning. It will highlight my critical thinking and creative expression capacity, illustrating my poetic understanding growth. The analysis of structured versus free-form poetry reveals my understanding of the poet’s tools and how they impact the reader.
Revision: Part 1 Robert Frost’s “Design” is a deceptive and simple sonnet that delves into questions about the nature of existence and the role of a higher power. His poem hinges on an innocuous image: a white spider devouring a white moth on a white heal-all flower. This extreme, stark, monochromatic tableau disrupts the expected harmony of nature, prompting the speaker to question the underlying forces at play. There lies the questioning of the dichotomy that is life’s most accurate form. Frost’s use of language is not only crucial to the poem’s impact. Its repetition of the color white develops this prominent sense of eerie detachment; with it comes the emphasis of the unnatural quality that is the scene. The spider, typically seen as a predator and gnashing, is depicted here as a voluptuous, almost infantile creature, blurring the lines between innocence and the menacing knowledge of death. This juxtaposition further disrupts the reader. The sonnet’s form mirrors the speaker’s internal turmoil and an evil question. The octave sets the scene and establishes the enigma, while the sestet manufactures a grappling with potential explanations. Frost’s careful enjambment and syntax multiply the poem’s sense of unease, mirroring the speaker’s struggle to comprehend the observed event. There is that daunting reality that the speaker cannot or will not face. Ultimately, “Design” offers no definitive answers. Nevertheless, that is the reason. It faces the honest reality of destructive ways, and nature is in its natural stance. The final question, “If design governs in a thing so small,” hangs in the air, a testament to the epic and crucial manifesting of fear that comes with the knowledge of death; it stands as a mystery of existence. Frost masterfully invites the reader to participate in this inquiry, leaving them to ponder the implications of a universe. Part 2 – Sonnet Shadows Shadows creep undone, whispering in tongue. A heart is pumping, desolate and alone, hungry for splendor, for joy’s one song. An empty vessel where dreams have flown A longing for hope, a need for light. To travel wayward, feeling spirits rise, To grasp at joy, to conquer the darkest Night, and heed and shadows with questioning eyes, The shadows creep and mournful whisper sigh, As fevers drip and splendors start to reek. With flickering tongues and dreams that swiftly fly, A vacant vessel where sorrows deeply seep. So let us hope that dawn will soon appear, And banish shadows, calming every fear. Part 3 – Free Form Poem Shadows The heart pumps into the Night, beating, thrumming through the shadows that come creeping.
Drumming, it beats through the darkness, and it grasps hold of hope for a brighter ‘morrow.
Empty and alone, a heart goes pumping for hope of tomorrow,
Dire worries and splendor near-forgotten, tongues of unknown whisper sweet desolate nothings
Promising of wishes unseen, unbroken, undone.
The heart pumps into the Night with the hope of the morrow,
Thrumming and drumming, its ravaged tongue lapping at the splendor of hope.
A beat, a rhythm, and the shadows creep—a body weeps.
A heart goes beating, rapping at the cracks that shine a light.
Til hopeful ‘morrow comes, we hope, we pray.
Part 4 When writing in poetic form, one must set a structure, a puzzle deliberately designed. One may think it is merely a matter of aesthetic placement and splashing the superfluous intertwined, but there is so much more. Using the structural puzzle creates a powerful tool arrangement, drawing shapes with meaning, influence, and how the reader interprets the experiences. The divisive ways in which text is structured help drive the impact for the reader. When contemplating a sonnet, a highly structured form involving fourteen lines, octave, sestet, and iambic pentameter, it takes a deliberate choice of structure and wording to create an argument that resolves itself near the end. An introspection and argument reside within the theme of a Sonnet that cannot be shared with the same intent. There is a concrete place of consideration that delves into exploring the argument. When considering free-form poetry, the poet can explore freely, almost endlessly. The poet has the freedom to examine from multiple angles, to realign and focus on sensory details, and even the emotional responses that would derive from the poem. In contrast to the structured sonnet form, free-form poetry offers a sense of liberation and inspiration. The sonnet form holds the poet to a set of rules that can’t be realigned to feed its purpose, meaning that the poet needs to contemplate its verbiage and appropriate direction. In using free form, the result can be more immediate and detail the more profound meaning in a delicate fashion. However, when thinking of rhyme and meter outside of free form, this keeps order and control. With this implication of maintaining the rules of the written poetry, one has a pattern that can convey certainty. That said, free-form can lose this defining set point and be seen as a form of rebellion, uncertainty, and even chaos. It is in the matter and power of the poet in which tools they choose and how their structure will define their motive and impact.
Oh, how the days have melded and frayed. How my mind is layered and stacked against the current tide at my feet of stupified complacency.
I stand weak and wobbled, a pilfered soul shambled and wrecked. Tired of the exhaustion and spent decay, flummoxed by the degrading of the body, worried by the tongue and it’s many deviant ways.
So I sit silent, stacked with my vices, lamenting the expressive decay that rattles my mind.
A day in the life…of an angry MSer.
C’est La Vie
Good night, good morning, good morning and good night. Maybe forever bright and stay safe in the night.
Was given a project to write about an object in an objective form. Below is that objective description.
It is a box. It is a small black cardboard dusty box with Westworld printed on the top lid portion. It is a product of LootCrate and it is approximately a 6.5in x 11.5in x 4.5in box that may or may not contain contents.
Next up I was told to write a poem based on said objective description but using figurative language, what do you think?
Black Box
By: M R. Vega
Dark and brooding it sits.
Schrodinger’s cat may be within.
Black and daunting dusted, boxed and emboldened.
It sits silent, ruminative, old, dark and brooding.
Schrodinger’s Cat it isn’t.
Black and daunting, never moving, always still. It sits.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. May your day be gracious and your night be blissful. I thank you for your support and coming back again and again. Thank you for being awesome thank you for being you.
Alabaster stone, carve me a tomb to pay debts ahead for the home that I find alone and barren.
Alabaster stone take me to the throne, to the cage that will become my forever home.
Alabaster stone bring me your sheen, it’s translucency forever mirroring the many, your curved stone cold to lips bare and bleeding.
Alabaster stone, whole people cold and languid to the bone, stupefied to the core for nothing more than the gore that is the screens before, pale, soft and white, porous and leeching like the teeth that clench.
Alabaster stone, woe me the worries of the cage that keeps me barren and stolid, let me shake and stir, but don’t touch through the evanescence and translucency of an empty promise.
Alabaster stone, shine your cool white light of earthen trembling cage around my bones it’s sedimentary reason for being scrapped and bruised, keep me still through and bore for what it is.
Alabaster stone, keep me true to the whole of what is you, what is me, alabaster stone shine your sheen it’s translucency to the truth of what may be forever your cold languid white blank screen.
Alabaster stone, carve me a tomb to pay debts ahead for the cage that I find alone and barren.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. I thank you for the support I see each day, I thank you for being you and coming back again and again.
I pray your day and night be worthy and splendid. Stay safe and have a good day.
I’m haunted. Every day I wake knowing, lamenting in quite remorse and I sit haunted. 15 years and counting. If only the cries and shudders to stop were heard, if only, if only.
Stupidity had its day, leaving a bairn to be raised by wolves of the masculined type. Where did lost heads find empty necks? Only forward towards the brim of something new and the same.
A monotony, the dichotomy of what is all too similar, it’s surreal. Surreality for the absurdity for being alive in this role we call life. Call for life, called purpose. Come on keep me alive and clap five times. Five times to make me yours.
Don’t know if you’re seeing it, catching anything amiss, know of what’s missing?
The missing missing piece…come on five times clap, clap, clap, clap, clap…five times, five times. Clap.
An ellipsis to start, a beginning long from where we’re at, I take my palms to my eyes and squeeze out the anguish of time I’ll spend and wonder where the it’s all gone.
Checking my hands, waving away the monotonous diatribe, monologue me this backward cuz this isn’t sweeping itself up.
I find myself on the run, fleeing in place, stomping on the same grounds for eons now and you wonder to why I haven’t taken to the river.
Why not let my worry run like a baptized soul, maybe just the feet would do. Dunk a toe, wipe away the moisture. Don’t feel much in change, feel more than lies, dunk a toe, maybe for a second time for extra measure, for extra purity.
I take to the sky instead, to the rhythmic splendor of the space between you and I, removing the baptismal opportunity to be resurrected though from ash and soot. Watch me burn to be what I become, like a wolf from the pack howl and run, howl and flee. My pack is hungry
Burning embers to my temple, blue night shadow, withers my sorrows.
Forever splendor, feigning fervor to the quiet solitude that stands resolute.
Burning embers to my heart’s desire, muted and restrained, bleeding red, lamentations for silence.
Painted stars and space within these lids, closing the eyes to fly away from this here haze finding no solace in the noise.
Blue scorn to my fervour of an untamed heart, splice my mind and the memories within, bring me solace paint, me black, paint me red, paint me new.
Burn to ash the worry of tomorrow, burn the hand that holds one still, burn, burn, burn, leave the scars of the troubled heart for another day.
Leave the mind to another, leave the heart find the time, take the red, take the black, call for pause and take a breath.
We call to ash, we bring the hate, like shrouded blankets of fueling madness, spitting rage, burn it down take the fire, bring the red. Bring the hate. Take my fate.
Ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash to ash.
I have a question, a sincere one that I’d love feedback for.
Is one an a**hole for not enjoying the 4th? Just aspects, maybe?
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the holiday and what it stands for. And it’s not that I don’t respect those that have died for that beautiful resolve that is the freedom that we’ve been given and had been earned. I think what it is now, the world’s changed and the way we respect and we the way we look upon one another is with damning eyes apparently and it hurts my heart. So today I celebrate being with my family, being with the ones I love and the ones I hold dear and true because with them my freedom is available. So that’s where I was and that’s how I am and that’s kind of where I’m standing. I will say we got some kids firework sets and my little guy absolutely loved it kept asking for more and more and luckily, lo and behold, there was a box of fireworks just chilling in the back patio. Ended up getting quite a show and had a wonderful time and that’s something that matters giving that value to my little guy he doesn’t understand what it means for politics and the rest of everything that is the nuance of being human and being you know cognizant with the s*** reality we’ve got going on right now but I wanted to make sure that I could provide as much as glorious a day for him as possible. I think I achieved it.
(untitled)
By: M. R. Vega
Untitled. By: M. R. Vega
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. May the day, may the night, may the world embrace you and boost you to your highest. Thank you for your support and coming back and again.
Today I’m doing a poetry post due to celebrating family and being together tomorrow. I’ve got loads of prep work and wanted to post this before the fourth has encroached on the rest of my joys.
I hope you are all well and hope the poem is enjoyed.
Tell Me by: M. R. Vega
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. May the day and wondrous darkness that comes through the nightly winds caress you gently and tuck you in for a splendid dream fueled bliss.
Today will be a day a poetry which may, just maybe, become a consistent addition to the blog depending on reception. Forget-Me-Naught is getting some feedback from some friends of my 18 yr old and I’m loving that. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about having her kind of jump into helping me if she’s up for it with the memories, which I told her if she’s going to go to college it would be a great addition for her portfolio either after or before college, or f***, during.
But I digress, to the poetry, I found a conscientious leather producer of Buffalo leather as a matter of fact on Amazon, did some research and got some benefit of the doubt going on, so I purchased it and I will be taking an image otf a poem everyday depending on how long obviously there will be so many pictures but I do hope it translates well, if not please plealse do let me know and I will make a scribed editio PO x with the photo included.
One son of a b****, trying to figure out which proper pen to use for cloth paper. Turns out that Sharpie’s Gel S works pretty well.
LEATHER VILLAGE07-02-2024IntroductionHowling by: M. R. Vega
As I stated in the previous post I am writing some letters to the boys. I had originally decided that I was going to write three, one for both of them together to be read and then one separately each. Even with forever stamps though, I’m looking at using the three I have left for what I’m writing just in one letter. But at least I have it.
It’s been too long since the last letter I’ve written but it’s about time that I’m communicating to the two that will be receiving them shortly.
Regardless, I’m still nervous, not that I’ll be there when they get the letters, not that I’ll see how their faces change through page after page. Will they be stolid and silent, or will they come with grace and a wanting to meet?
The questions I should have asked myself years ago and couldn’t see from when I made the decisions that had led me to where I’m at now, it’s surreal at times, just to think of then and now. To think of the infantile young adult that was 19 and stupid to now, nearing 34, wishing and wondering so many things could have been different, but if it was that, I wouldn’t be me, it wouldn’t be this.
I leave you with a poem of what’s being felt inside, the wrestling of me.
Untitled
By: M. R. Vega
Questions, answers, a child, make it two. They come with hesitations, lamentations, facing an adverse wall of loss and convoluted reprise.
I come with constraints, a nervous bellowing deeply settled, unsure of the realities I see, unsure of the recoiling unknown, knowing I’d be just as apprehensive to know what’s before me.
Questions and answers, share a truth, don’t shy from honesty, trust in thyself, what’s the worst that can happen?
So many years, so many unanswered questions, curiosities of the splendor to the unknown, the unchecked, what will you say? How will you feel?
There sits pen and paper, before me it rests, my hands shake, the heart quivers to the nervousness of what you two will think. I press on and give you as much as I can muster to give a good take of my tapestry.
Take the thread, follow my steps to learn from what I’ve become and who I am to be. I come with honesty and guilt, take my apologies as you will. I am here.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. Thank you for the support readers and I Love that you come back time and again. May your day come with grace and the night a blissful one. Thank you.
Summer sun, solstice’s Moon, strawberry glamour upon the midnight air. 18 years scowling freight to be dismissed for such a demanding duration.
I bury my head between the sheets of summer heats echoing blisters into the ears of yesteryears for me and those dead and gone.
Clouds of citrine, and lilac, summer skin, lacquered and bronzed bring me your tenderness, lay the metal between my ears, kiss me tender, kiss me thrashing.
Summer sun Solstice’s Moon, a Summer heat pervading the strawberry glamour that thrums at the ocean bed.
Summer sun Solstice Moon, give me the strawberry streams of yester yonder.
Summer sun, Solstice moon, give me a dream to be free. Eighteen Years holding for a time to shine, to say hello, eighteen years, may there be gray, wrinkle, let it weigh, take freight, eighteen years to be free, to be seen.
Summer sun Summer Moon strawberry glamour. Paint the world in your strawberry glow, a new summer dawning. Bring it forth for me and you.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. May your day be gentle and the night, let it kiss you to the dreams of tomorrow.
A scratch at my neck, a headache at the spine, start from the top try not to rewind.
Set to a tempo of four to six to two to eight, and take, take the gentle remedy for my migraine hurricane.
A scratch at my heart, a tickle in my lungs, take me to your middle, take my soul to rest.
Letting my soul take a beating, letting my heart take a lashing, a scratch at my head and my lungs, biting searing of iron on my tongue.
A scratch at my neck a headache at the spine, stop from the start and try not to rewind.
Spin for five, go back three spaced, taking a sidestep to the past, always seemed easier, when coming back to now, but it kills, kills, the heart stuck so far, far away.
A tickle to the mind, a pang at my lungs, a pierce at my heart, press play and let’s take it day by day, let the migraine take the say, take the pain, let’s hit play and go away, away, away.
Confusion
By: M. R. Vega
Having a gift, after their offers to those of others. A seller you’d need to be, looking still, looking to read the outcome of this case.
A simplistic location for change that they, there to inform the case, to pound, to hound, be high, be-kind get in, in the very king pass, peace for the past, call me one, hello phrase back, repeat to myself no repeat, no reset.
A tickle bracing to the hazing of constraints, lessening of grasps, take heed and a glance. We call to the murder, a crow caws for shelter and the hunger grows, grows to the murdering foes fluttering above caw, caw, caw, a-ha-ha-ha.
We huddle, we befuddle, we tremble, and we shudder to think that there’s nothing more than this to be for those of a murder fluttering above, caw, caw, caw, a-ha-ha-ha.
We stumble and run to mutter the phrasing that puts it all to slumber, we grasp and caress the daylight weather if only for a glimmer to be tomorrow, toward something apart from me and you so that we can find the thunder that rumbles within. Between, together. Between, together, for the murder, for the a-ha-ha-ha, between, together.
So, as of late, what I’ve been doing is I will put the mic in front of me. I will either listen to music or I won’t, and I just talk to the mic,maybe I’ll scream at it, whisper to it, but I just go on and then I edit and sometimes it becomes poetry, sometimes it becomes something else, sometimes it becomes something that will never meet the light of day. So welcome to my mind.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, Good morning and good night. Thank you for coming time and again and supporting my blog. It means the world to me, thank you.
Static envelopes that of worry, of reflection, and solution. Static to the jungle of the mind. Take an extinguisher to the flame, douse me in carbon, snuff the blazen charred crisp.
Static envelopes that of the confabulations, turmoiled unchecked resolve…static to the road that I call control, give me a parallel.
Static envelopes the mettle of the self like a muzzle to the heart of the thoughts of an abyss darkened by an ouroboros of solutions to a conflict unseen, unknown, but certain.
Static envelops that of the mind, of the heart, of the worry, the inconsistent innocence of today, today, today, today…today.
Static envelopes that of the body, riled, pillaged, drained, and dried. Tried and true to the malleable tenacity of persistent motion, incessant anguish to the power of manipulation.
Static.
Static.
Static.
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning.i thank you for the patience and apologize for the very late posts that’ll be parading through. Til tomorrow.
I hesitate, take a pause, hold my breath, shift to the interlacing threads I know are there and hold a liquid splendor to the rotting of what’s pumping inside.
The barbs strike, coiling around, around something aching, convulsing, and thrashing.
The heart it lays heavy, sobbing, liquid gestating to the kind masticating young for the blood to pump life and passion, a gestating for love, for hate. How it whinies, how it crows upon the moon, how it gawks and hoots, suckling at the casabas of us, of you, of me, for love, for hate.
Atop the chest of us, inhaling the anguish, and spewing the fueling, putrid ale, shoveling into you and I.
Like pigs greedily suckling, latching and hating, spewing malice, fuming frothing despair. Take upon the lies of dawn, of an earlier darkness that takes and takes all to what is always enough but suck and suck it goes, gestating the hate, gestating the malice that is becoming you and I.
Becoming you and I. We kick and flail, like infinite children giving up on growing, on changing, let it be, take me to the pits, bring me the fire. What say you?
The moon is dead, the sun blackened, my hands red, your eyes crying, wet and flooding. The moon is dead like the heart that was, like the heart we made and gave up on.
The moon is dead and my heart is blackened with the sun, blackened with the mind of you and I. I bet for your needs, beg for the want for what comes with an eternal love, silence meets my ears. Silence meets my heart, for you and I.
Invisible? Can I no longe be a part of you, wanting to know what you’re needing, what you want, running, running down through to the ground, bloodied and pulped. Struggling and darkened, faded and gone, tripping over the land miness of twisted logic. An ouroboros of the gestating kind, a self proposed ambition of the constant duration to the forever abortion of love and hate.
Forever.
Let me be, tell me those needs to keep this going…
Like Sisyphus, Hercules, Pandora, and those that spoil. take me to the fire for love and hate. Take me to the squelching gnashing and gnawing hate that fuels the irons, that laces the barbs upon a heart for you and I.
Sorry, the last few days have said a lot through emotions seen and shown, the living of life and love, am I right?
ENJOI!!!
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. Thank you for the support, thank you for the views and coming back a time or two. Til tomorrow.
A call to compromise, to outweigh the solutions and sow the soils, to turn left and exit.
A call to compromise, throw a towel forget the heart and burn to ash.
A call to compromise, shift the weight, play the counter, don’t trip, better not fucking trip.
A call to compromise, did your heart wallow at the stake, did your worry clap and whisper a faint goodbye, that hollow salute?
A call to compromise, did the teeth gnash at the tether of that moral compass.
A call to compromise, how down, don’t question, don’t ask a thing, not a peep, make sure you’re ready.
A call to compromise, never play facetious, always fastidious, salute and bow out.
A call to compromise, don’t diss, don’t reminisce, the past is dead, work here, work now.
A call to compromise, change the being, become the mold, fit the clay or a design that has been lost, remixed, thrown, raped, pillaged, fit the mold, find the clay, wear it well, it do you true.
A call to compromise, don’t matter, try not to stutter, mistakes be gone, don’t ask a question, become the mold, fit the clay find the heart to the design.
A call to compromise, toss the key, throw out the books toss your mind, sell the rest. Pay no mind to being true, a holding to you.
A call to compromise, hear the screams, hear the gate. A call to compromise, where the heart is no more. A call to compromise, where the spirit cannibalized. A call to compromise, take away the being of true, the meaning of you.
A call to compromise, feeling empty, feeling wanted, filling despondent, adrift, barren, bone, and breath.
A call to compromise, give it all, let it be, give it all, give it all, give it all.
Pour for the Mountains by: M. R. VegaGorilla with a Pyramid by M. R. VegaGorilla with a Pyramid by M. R. Vega, 3/4 angle mixed mediums, pour paint acrylic, resin, water colour.Mixed mediums. Enjoi !!!
Walk
By: M. R. Vega
Go, go, go. I know your pain, I get the struggle, like Sisyphus and the stone, go, go, go. Take it to the street, to.
Go to the streets, take to the walk, parallel the city lights and the perpetual motion of the living.
I call the streets like a mandolin leaving breadcrumbs to follow, to inhale for a connect.
Extrapolate the result, a weight to the worry, the heart, stop, stop, just take to a walk, get away.
Go, go, go, feed your heart the flame of what licks and gnashes behind, let go from a past long lost, nothing meant to be repeated, resurrected, revived for consumption, gnash and gnaw talk to the walk, take to go, go, go.
Go, go, go, permeate through the walls, let the salt and mire bore through, take to walk, parallel the city lights, inhale the perpetual motion of the living, and find a hollow ground.
Go, go, go.
Go. Get away.
Who? By: M. R. Vega (in production, acrylic on black canvas)
Enjoi!!!
C’est La Vie
Good night and good morning, good morning and good night. May the joyous life of the world bless the heart extinguish the grief. May peace find you. Thank you.
Life, individuation, sorry I’m so late to the post drop. F****** life, just manages to shift focus, has the kind scrambled and me really trying to make sure I end with an A for this final with the course… Now here’s the thing.
It’s three pieces, a short story, an analysis of short story and character development and discussion, the second, addressing the Gettysburg address, four lines, analyze, describe and share with an annotated location of language, stanzas and what have you, the third an expose on why short stories are the objective, why they h mean so much and in doing detail the meaning of Edgar Allen Poes thoughts on the discussion of the short story.
Easily done, truly, not all that daunting and it’s exciting…
But, did I ever mention throughout my daily spills that Ocrevus can bring depression? It’s a warning, I know it, and I’m finally addressing that it’s got me at the moment, weeks actually, coming to terms with that and acknowledging it is making it easier but to keep my head up, to stay positive is asking a lot and as I’ve said time and again, I’m f****** tired.
How it Feels
By M. R. Vega
The morning comes with a whipping latch for the bones within. A heated flurry, a whisper of worry, but the rhythm of our flows discombobulate the mind.
Don’t worry, this too shall pass. Let these lies be grasped tightly, shoved and inhaled down, down to rectify the pain, to revive a fire long expelled, long dried, ashen, and…Gone.
Contrary to the burning letters inside this obstacle course of what I call my temple, contrary to the belief all is fine, the pages tatter, they flutter to fly, to fail, to die.
Come with me, take a minute within to find a resolute shame, to find the broken and take to it some tape, trap in what’s left, to it be kept for this, to be shared before it’s long gone. To be burned to an ashen whisper of a previously rebuked hope, let it become ash, it’s where we came, where we belong.
Life…sometimes it’s a convoluted mess that takes days to untangle.
However I am excited to share some art and upcoming projects I hope are appreciated here.
IDEA #1Needs massive change IDEA #2IDEA #3IDEA #4IDEA #5IDEA #6Plans of making more face parts and we’ll see…🤔🤔🤔
We’ll see likely over the weekend and I’ll get back to pillar one tomorrow. Sorry for this being so damn late.
C’est La Vie
Goodnight and good morning, good morning and goodnight. May the day be bliss, may the night bring joyous splendor of dream fueled delight.
Life, individuation, the first pillar, Jung, my head, Jung, again, my head, Jung , Jung, Jung, look a wall.
Today, well, it’s a day where I’m going to take a moment to myself and reflect while I share some poetry and a playlist of favorites from Spotify. Enjoi!
Seashells
I remember the seashells, I remember the cold surface cupped against my ear, my mother asking if I can hear… If I can hear an ocean deep.
I remember the seashells, I remember the cold surface, an echoed hollow of something distant, something nearing being forgotten, I remember.
I remember the seashells, that cold surface, and a question that came with a known white lie, I remember nodding to a sound I didn’t know, something distant, something but forgotten, I remember.
I remember the seashells, but it’s something new, something small, I remember the seashells and their distant whisper of lyrics sung but only to me, I remember a different shell, this with sound, I remember.
M. R. Vega
Change
Calm the solutions, claim to negligence, absolve the blame.
The furrow of furies, a billowed worry, the calm to recoiled delights
Shame the differences, accuse the anguish, flavors missed, the ears suppressed. Mute. Mute. Mute and Scream.
M. R. Vega
Fuzzy Fury
Confusion.
I was here, now I’m gone, but then I was here again. Wait. What? I was here, now I’m gone, but then again I was here. Again.
A testament to this in a breaking brain, how the routine, disarray of the ADHD, a fragmented space of matter, missing, chunks, white, evanesce, to blank, the gray, eroded, the black, gone, gone, gone.
As discussed this week I’m focusing on finding a decent routine for Jung’s First Pillar, aiming to create a healthy mind-space and to aid my body to be in sync with one another, and find that equilibrium to always be able to catch myself.
Like I said the biggest aspect that calls for managing is time and consistency with my health. If I push too hard, I’ll be out for days, too exhausted and fatigued to do enough for being a better self. But I’ve gained some traction and am feeling confident.
Now, I’ve found some good methods to stay active and maintain my agility, I’m still figuring out what’s too much and what’s going to work and that’s great, but let’s focus on the big thing. The mind.
I prefer the idea of self actualization which I know pairs more with Maslow’s hierarchy…but that’s for another time. I do feel that they tie together though, both Maslow’s and Jung’s philosophy aim for happiness,at least a variation of that. Sorry, I digress.
I want my mind to be whole, to be connected from one hemisphere to the next, to not be so convoluted and discombobulated as I feel most days, this is a need that calls for training.
Even through PT (physical therapy) for the MS there’s a reminding that we need to communicate with the whole of our mind and the appendages we rely on, I try, but then… Ever see UP and the goofy Labrador Dug?
That’s what I’ve found I struggle with internally when trying to slow and meditate for the sake of my mind. I’ve restored to using Google’s Balance. I don’t use it often enough but when I do, I’m reminded to write, to draw, and sketch, to paint, to sing, and dance like my heart wants. Through meditation, like reading I’m reminded I’m more than a dad and a husband that I am myself and I pay to that acknowledgement by allowing myself to enjoy what I create.
Today I share some poetry, tomorrow art, and within the week Joel and his wife in Forget-Me-Naught, Detective Adams in Stuck, and Mrs. Nogare in a revised ‘A Student and a Question’.
What comes to mind?
Playlist #0.11
Hope you enjoy the poems and the music.
Close
The lamenting and grief, the darkness that undertakes a remorse unseen.
Remorse, remorse, show your recoiling, show an utter rejection to the becoming.
You call to the blight, to the vapid sponge of heart, slay away the wonder, deny the tender.
Nay, slam shut forgiveness, hold your hate, it stokes your fire, let it feed you to your heart’s desire.
Bring damnation, vilify the work, that effort, take me and be done. But be no more, fall to the shadow, fall to the dark, let it be.
Finding Isolation
The quiet alarm, fingers tingle, and voices emit from the hundred screens, the conversations a tit for tat with smiles for laughs.
There’s that music stealing and that constant barking, the haunting reminding that there comes dying. That quiet alarm, grab at the tree, grab at the fog, grab for a darkened bitter to shake the heart awake, bring a cognizant hate for what it can never be. And that it has to be.
Take the steps, take it to own, that conversation unknown, now come to shudder and think how it’d be with no one, some one, some thing other than the shadow it gives, the image a snarl that gleams through the washing of mirrors, of the reflection to that unknown.
Repeat
I stumble, no, I fall to perish alone, I fall to become my own. I stand not knowing my left from right.
Whether I’m coming or going, I wouldn’t know, wrapped within this ouroboros, all for a tomorrow that will never grace us.
History repeats mistakes like the undead, to come again, again, again, again, again.
Striving to commit, aiming for the arrow atop Mount Sinai, only to tumble, and carry over to repeat.
Repeat, again, repeat again. The repetition becomes a coaxing measure that keeps me here, keeps me going like the pinked ears on the screen.
To repeat again.
Up
We don’t look up, do we never take the time to take a glance? Through the night the silence envelops, caresses, and I ask that you tilt your head back to embrace the Moon, let it reverberate through the electric sensation I sense from afar.
I howl with that glow, howl for the scent of your fingers reaching up toward the guiding light, I howl.
My bones ache, the heart it swells and I yearn for you. Can we look up to that Moon, to the light it has etched for the trail ahead? May we look up to feel one another, may we look up to be connected, to feel the electric, the sensations that wrestle with nature? Let us look up together so I may see your heart.
I howl to the moon, to feel you, to breathe in the fading essence of beauty and love, I howl to the moon, to the moon for you. I howl.
To Tell
I’d like to say I’m sorry, that I knew what I was doing, that the cage I put myself in was alabaster and gleaming decorated and comfortable.
I would love to tell you that I’m free, that this cage though translucent has me feeling the surroundings.
I would love to tell you.
That the opaque aire has me reminiscent of ancient time, a memory far stolid and etched within my grain.I
I Would Love to tell.
C’est la vie
Good night, and very much a good morning. Good morning and what a phenomenal night to come. I truly hope the best for anyone that ever breathes, and pray that life is gracious and effortless and making it yours.
The day has been drifting, the time inching, and I’ve taken the opportunity to enjoy the present, enjoy my family, and take on as many cuddles from my little boy as can be tolerated.
But it did bring a thought. One I feel we all tend to ask ourselves when losing traction or focus. What am I doing?
A poem:
Thought.
The power of the mind, the traction of our thoughts, the power we give the things that are so, so irrational.
Love.
A feeling, tremendously fragile, tempting fate, tempting life, Love. An underrated, understated, most verbally related form of justified sensation.
Thoughts.
The darkness shrouds, and the light is fleeting, my mind is always staying to task, oh no, no it’s not, the darkness shrouds, the thoughts they stick, no they don’t. Thoughts.
Like butterflies bouncing from chest to mind to mind to hand to hand to foot,butterflies bounce and bounce with thoughts and feelings, emotions dark and light, the butterflies bounce and bounce flutter and trounce, and all I want is to collect them in order smallest to biggest, smallest to biggest.
Love and thoughts thoughts and love I say hi-ho and so it goes to repeat another, to repeat another, to repeat another.
End.
C’est la vie
Goodnight and good morning, good morning and good night.
Dream Dark Stories 