Life

Ridiculous creation.

Death teases with sleep.

Insignificant birth,

loved by a serrated cyclone

that ends without a sound. again.

Progenitive disappointment haunts

while the weight of Cronus reveals

frailty beneath.

Then she comes.

Ridiculous creation.

-jsn

Status!

It always seems to be a down hill ride. What I wouldn't give again for but a single moment of the past. I'm not even picky. Just give me one before this all started. Foolish and childish I know, and yet I can't seem to help myself. I've had four incredibly bad cluster attacks within the past week. Four emergency room visits, of course. It's really quite shitty, as they can do nothing to help except pump me full of pain medicine until it passes. In the process of fighting back against the attacks, I end up ripping out my hair and gnashing my teeth into oblivion. No, no, I don't do it on purpose. It just happens.

My dresser still looks like a pharmacy. I've been doing my best to wean myself off of the Lortab I have to take, as my tolerance was just going through the roof. The withdraw from it was absolutely horrific (I like that word, horrific.) but I'm back down to my regular dosage and hope to keep it that way. Of course, my other vices kick in simply because my mind has been raped. Strong word, I know. I think the sanity of any other person at this point would be lost, and yet I'm still here, sort of. I admit, my mind is not what it used to be. I find I forget common things I should know. Spelling, famous poems I love, things just told to me, things I should be doing. Things I mean to write, and then forget to. I feel like I'm withering right in front of myself and am completely powerless to stop it. But I'm still here, so I go on. Cigarettes are awfully nice, and despite the fact they produce clusters in other people, it's one of the few things that seems to provide me with momentary relief. I suppose I take what I can get. It's better than the Lortab anyway.

So much time to think, as I can't do much else. I think it must be true, the ever cliche saying you hear in movies, and from those who have lived full lives: It's never about what you've done, only what you didn't. I see how I squandered what was given to me early on, and I'm sad to admit, I do regret it.

I regret not being more generous with who I was.
For clinging to childish ideals and fantasies.
For ruining friendships.
For not saying I love you, more often.
For sitting down, when I should have stood up.
For saying no, when I should have said yes.
Sometimes, for saying yes, when I should have said no.
The list goes on, but it doesn't matter. If I focus on these things, I really will be lost. Sometimes, I forget how bad it hurts. I don't know why, just moments. And I mean moments: minutes, seconds, even. Never longer, and I think I feel happy again, for just a second. Then I get emotional, and the water works start. Har, har, I know. (I actually still have my sense of humor. I don't think it can be taken from me.) Well, I think that's enough gushy isn't it? I really do have a soul, despite how irritable I can be at times. It's really not who I am. Really, isn't.

I like this one, a lot. Most fitting title. Evar.

And It's All About Me

and it's all about me,
that pain that mocks me every moment;
those questions no other can answer.
how I cannot turn away
And the animal that mewls outside my door,
inciting such flame within me;
when it begs for the scraps I will only waste
how I cannot turn away..
What of the homeless man who pleads from the street;
who wants but a single dollar of my time;
whom I disdain simply for his words.
how I cannot turn away.
Then there are those who hate;
who can't bear the thought of another;
those who despise what they are not.
how I cannot turn away!
And it's all about me;
Compassion gone wrong; yet :
I cannot turn away!!
My hate-threaded love
can't turn away...
cannot turn away.
CANNOT TURN AWAY

sincerely,
-j

Movin' on

Nothing great to report. Saw a new ENT, he seems to be more intelligent than the rest of them. My elitist, arrogant, hate-filled Catholic room mate is starting to annoy the living piss out of me. I endure. Look, I even write short, sappy, sweet things. See below.


Train of Thought

Sometimes I'm thinking it's really just a ride;
that some guy has convinced us is awesomely wild
It feels that way to me, sometimes bumpy, often
quite slow; and at times rained out, closed down for the snow
But we can't get out, just shop through tinted window;
irritable, impatiently waiting for the go signal
And there's something I've been thinking, hoping
it not wrong: that if you were stuck beside me, I
could wait forever long.

Never let it be said I'm all doom and gloom!
-jsn

Wmg, 50 original works

It's true! I've finally posted fifty original works on this site. I never thought it would come this far, even if it still isn't much. I've really enjoyed sharing my writing with anyone that has happened to see it. You've my deepest gratitude if you stopped only to look for a moment.

For this one, I tried something I dub "blurbing" it's just a single scene of a character, with nothing more. References are to Through the Looking Glass, Gulliver's Travels, and the story of Tithonus. Short and sweet.

No Alice Here.

She lays her head on the window sill and let's the cold midnight breeze swirl in. Raising her arm across her chest, she grips her shoulder weakly in a self giving hug. Where are the arms meant to wrap me from behind? It's only beautiful when not looking through glass. I'm no Alice; plenty of time. I think I'm a Struldbrugg; Tithonus dusting the rug. Where are you? I'm lost, and the world is all wrong.

-jsn

Number 48?

High above the smog stained city,
a bright fire dashes across the sky
it's radiant star storming light bathes
the artificial below. And in moments
it has passed; fled the moon and her
horizon for another uncountable age.
But no one has noticed and that which
is never seen can not be forgotten.
So while the heavens gave its cosmic
show, most were too busy: the Idol
was on.

Just a poem

And the softest silken hair,
yet to touch was something no one seemed to dare

A heart of the most brilliant loving light,
yet strangled and wrapped in dark's chilling night

Still in a body quite young and less than fit,
yet a mind so tired, so razed, it prefers to sit

Bearer of lips that crave anothers deepest kiss,
yet alone so often they grow cold; left amiss

And if you knew how much love she had lurking
within, you'd weep with despair claiming it so unfair

Frowny faces here

Sad day. What else is new? My doctor thinks I'm a drug addict, my mother is going senile, and I often think the word friend is synonymous with the phrase "it's okay to hurt me, i'll forgive you." Too emo? In happier news, James Joyce class is going well. I simply love the mountain of riddles that is Ulysses and just really get a kick out of researching obscure references. It's like finding Waldo! ...I'm so lame.

Phoenix

Defeated.
She removes her armor,
looms over the fallen knight
and offers a hand,
the other still clutching the blade
that lay nestled in his chest.
Indomitable.
He clasps her hand lightly
and rises to his feet.
Wrenching her steel kiss free,
as she says with a smile:
I love you!
I love you!
Can't you see why?

New myths

Where do we find them? Do we make them ourselves, or are we doomed to repeat the old ones in the newest fashion?

Musa

If one called you Muse,
Lady Schala, my time devoured
Queen.
Would it be sheer folly,
or are you no less real
than Helen's Mephistophilian
dreams?

Nasty outside

It's still miserably cold outside and raining now. Meanwhile, just to the north they have beautiful (terrible) snow. We missed it yet again. So, poetry! The problem: History can be and has been misread. We're just not that bright (we're brilliant). Well, what if it happens to us in the future? A good one thousand years perhaps? Longer? Pick any number I think.

He told me he was afraid; that when ages have passed
leaving you and I but dusted flakes on the wind,
in the ghostly valley where we once lived
some brave explorer shall find the toy; a doll his kid
used to play with outside in the dirt. the yellow clad
retractable action-clawed Wolverine,
And they shall marvel at the symbols of our terrible gods.

Super attack

Of my cluster headaches today. I had to take a trip to the emergency room (again) and of course all I can do is explain what's happening (which isn't easy! I smile, but it is the worst pain I've ever known, and I grow irritable about always having to explain) and hope they understand, not thinking I'm seeking drugs. Luckily, my doctor was able to call in and explain for me this time. Good stuff. Life goes on it seems. I want to add another section to this towards the bottom, after the introduction of the younger appearing one.

Ever After

Left with heart torn
so asunder it can't even
look upon you in sweet dreams.
For when in Heaven we met again;
our time expired; eternity:
a way to forget.
You chose to be Gray, aged away
when you knew your happiest days;
watching your children s children
by the fireside play.
And there stood I,
the young blind fool
wrapped in his earliest ways, still
the idealist, the carefree Dreamer.
The poet, writer, and sometimes swimmer.
As you smiled upon me in your never
sparing way, I knew you were leaving;
walking away.
For even in Heaven, Everyone's
Ever After doesn't seem to always
matter.

Tale Collector

A look at a poet.


Tale Collector.

It's happened again.
a summer has been
squandered away without
even the mention of May.
Another wasteful tide,
Cast carelessly aside
simple counting away
of beauty-sewn day
draped in mornings
mourning grays.
Had I been but
a different Fool!
I would singe my
hands on far Bright Stars.
Or taken for granted
every ticking hour
Make way for
Ever After.
Or a lone ship
captain, his crew
since abandoned at
first sights swirling
disaster.
One would shout,
Lo' Ozymandias
how tiny you truly
be!
Crumbled face of
withered fate.
Ah, but only fantasy;
great feats of the
meager.
Instead of hero,
the eternal story
weaver.
A lost tale
Seeker.
The dark-clad heart
Dreamer.

Should be studying

I'm totally not.

Hero Complex.

Always looming like a black cloud unaware it drowns the sunshine,
And wearing down the soles of her feet with the constant imposition.
Chasing her away with the needy cries of, "But I will protect you!"
This must be a hero at the wrong crime scene.

Why is it so cold?!?!

Snow flurries come and tease me like a wicked girl but does it stick? No sir. Sad times. Well, there's always next winter. That's Alabama for you =(. New classes, woo. Can I graduate please? I have a James Joyce class though and it sounds like it's going to be awesome x 2. Despite my best efforts, the world keeps turning.

Overheard.

"Is this a twist off?"
-Definitely not.
Arrogance rises from
the most desolate
soul.