Final Piece

Prologue
I find myself writing
about things that
I haven’t figured out about myself like
why I don’t like trying new things,
or why I prefer to be, me
nearly ninety percent of my time.
Maybe, it’s my complexity
I want to give up my guns
And my tears
And my pillows.
I robbed a bank
I want it to haunt
my work
is usually understandable,
because
I use poetry as a
tool
to fix me.
Being raised with very few figures
makes it difficult for me
to be a figurine
to show emotion,
typically males don’t act like that.
I have to be strong,
people are depending on me to do so.
Being weak is not an option;
however I am human, and
need to be weak sometimes.
Transformers!
Writing,
Makes me proud,
Helps me
Say mine,
bleed me
open the opera
to vent the things
I cannot afford to say,
but yet the thoughts that
are always trickling
through my mind.
This may explain why most of my writing is somewhat weighted down by self pity.
For what it’s worth,
trying to figure out how to write about things that bother me,
giving the impression that
I am looking for pity
Like I need that
if I wasn’t in this class,
none of you would be reading my work, so please bear with me.
I have a hard time trying to find the
line between journal/diary work and poetry, if there is a line at all. T
ailoring my thoughts for creative writing class is something I need to consider.
Poetry is really interesting to me, it’s funny,
I love to write it, but hate to read it.
I hate reading poetry that I can’t understand.
For that reason,
I find myself hating poetry
the more that I read it.
Just last semester
I took Eng 347, and I guess the “theme” of the class was post-modern poetry.
Anyway, I read so much poetry that I don’t think that I will ever understand, it made me sick just reading it.
I hated the class because I felt like the poetry was smarter than me.
Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons still gives me goose bumps.
Actually,
I think the class kind of discouraged me from writing a little subconsciously.
Not the class content,
but reading abstract poetry made me so frustrated that maybe I just got turned off from it.
It seems the value on “good” writing goes up as I get older.
I remember elementary school, when my teacher used to read us Shel Silverstien, and we loved it.
That was good for us 2nd graders because it was easy fun, and understandable.
I am pretty sure that I would hate
poetry with a passion if my teachers read me Sylvia Plath or something like that.
I miss the days in High School,
where everyone who wrote anything was considered “good” and even if you weren’t, people still told you that you were and you believed it.
However, someone brought up the question: Should we try to figure out what poetry is?
Personally, I think we should, dissect poetry a little more. I don’t think it would take anything away from it.
Just because having it left open for interpretation is a little dangerous. Poetry should never be an easy read;
it should be just hard enough for someone to have to read three times, for anyone to truly figure out what it means.
I would never start a book, or a game knowing that I won’t understand it, so that’s why I get hesitant about reading poetry.
I hate to be frustrated and that’s why poetry is sometimes a problem for me.
That leads me into what I want from my writing,
I think it would be amazing if I could truly move someone with the overall sentiment of peace,
by the words I chose, and how I write them.
Being clever is something that value as well,
seeing anyone can write and rhyme,
I want my style to be evident from the first couple of lines. My readers should know my style and swag right away.
I want to be able to convey my tone effectively as well.
A sense of understanding my life is another objective of mine. If someone were to read my writing,
synonymously
they should know a part of me as well and hopefully relate.
People, who read my work,
should know that there isn’t any fiction going on.
Writing about something that I have a full understanding grasp on isn’t worth writing about.
Trying to figure out something about myself is also one of my goals. Hopefully by writing, both the reader
and I,
figure something out (hopefully) by the end of the piece.
I strive to be coherent as possible when I write. However,
coherency is the one aspect of my writing that I am constantly trying to improve.
The trend that I am on,
I have to say,
I usually write about myself.
I don’t like pretending that I am not,
so I always use (or intend to use) first person when I write.
I am starting to learn this way of writing has a lot of problems with it.
I pour my
heart and
soul into my writing.
I only write about things that are personal and intimate to me.
However,
I never divulge too far into my intimacies
to the point where I would feel violated if someone were to heavily critique my work.
I want to get better at expressing myself; I want to be a better writer.
One of my passions is trying new things whenever I get a chance.
For that reason,
I love trying new forms of poetry
I am excited that I get a chance to write in different forms
because that is something that I have had on my “bucket list” for a while.
I feel as every game needs rules in order to be enjoyable,
and I make the analogy to express my feelings on poetry.
I like bending rules, it helps exercise my creativity and push the limit of my patience,
which are two important attributes that writers need (in my opinion,
but what do I know?).
Writing in free verse would be harder for me than writing,
let’s say, a sonnet.
I would find myself frustrated because there is no set meter to play with,
no particular rhyme scheme to manipulate.
I hope that explains me/my writing style/ my agenda so that you as the reader understand my writing a little better
I hope that this class will inspire me to write more because I don’t think I write as much as I should.
When I was in creative writing, Tim told me that in order to be a good writer,
we should strive to write for an hour a day.
On my own,
I don’t think I write an hour a week,
let alone an entire day.
So I guess writing these blogs,

is kind of getting me into a good habit that will continue.
I get kind of discouraged when reading good poetry,
I am sure that every writer has went through this at one point in their life.
But reading makes me really question if I have what it takes to make it as a writer,
(assuming that I want to go that route)
because I feel like I should be better.
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My fists bleed death,
every time I utter the existence of the woman who cried, but couldn’t see. The differences between relying and crying, is simple.
First, relax; know that there is an existential discrepancy between mysteries and gold.
Where did you go
Is there a pilot?
Is there a gate?
Is there an apprentice who pretends to wolf?
Wolfing leads to an impractical practice, which is kind of redundant (in my opinion). The impractical practice then leads to pretenders, pretending, that they indeed know everything about matters of the door.
Once I accidently found an outlet to all of my disappointment, along with the theory that there is in fact, 27 letters to the alphabet.
I don’t quite understand it,
but it makes sense when you re-arrange your thoughts and align them with the thought of virtuous pretensions.
That’s right; it is I, who mastered the art of nothingness.
It was I, or shall I say me, who am the becomer who politically, and poetically, has the potential to become potential.
It will then rain.
It will become everything that one could never imagine to fathom,
Hypothetically speaking, I am the capital between the capitals.
I am the one who unites the three or four needles, until ones wish to become evil
I take the course and then, insanity takes slowly seeps into the womb.
I ask you the question, is it worth the proof?
Is it worth the risk of being imperial?
O boy!
I believe that in order to break free the expression of the mindful tactics, one must find the oppression of all that is mad.
Then make it appear to be something so genuine, that one will find the operation and destroy ever mood that it has ever been.
After all, everything is given to those who believe that everything is the rational explanation of thought through the eyes that belong to sea.
There is no exception to animal the liberation. One day, there will be an execution to those who scrutinize the bewildered.
Following idioms or controlled services serve no purpose to life, kind of like the platypus.
I am certain that am I am the victim, or your millennium disguised heart. I shall have revenge, as soon as I return from the savage land from which I came.
It is the splendor of being
I am the son of God, and a bastard.
I am a nun
You’ve done to me, just like they all have done.
They have came and rudely awaken the prince of peas, that forces me to act in ways that only a microscopic prison, that can only bare to suspend your wrong for exactly 8.43 seconds….amazing!
It gives me pleasure knowing, that all life realties are foam.
Seriously, if you leave me, I will sue.
I will bring forth an incredible tub of being so large, that it will become a part of culture, and you will then regret it.
I am a product of the rich grass that blows between the two who grew up and became real
Really real, the kind of real that doesn’t exist
The type of real that people dream to never become reality.

Into order to further misscomunicate ,
We must internalize the Fluctuation of my proximinity
Now she’s gone P111
Just let it run to the rabbit,
Unorganized thoughts swimming abruptly,
Lowlifes spitting
gazing sporadicly at a concealed splendor
Who needs a piece of literal interpretation with a hidden agenda that will contain all that we believe?
Understand,
that the chaotic understanding will be minimized.
Turn the lights off and shut your toes.
Listen to the bricks as they chime your name
Autumn Nights, P225
flourish, while all i want
I just want to be left alone,
so that may enjoy the splendor we call air
fool,
who doesn’t seem to comprehend
the precious gifts of wet dreams.
clear the dreams that once inhabited our fingers.
Pop pills unitl your nose bleeds
And rub static until your heart collapses
from the love that receives once you realize that no air
No apologizes
To those who ignite the sea
With their souls the overflow their thoughts
Of nothingness who once
Overflowed
Slit your toes
Watching dancers on skate p205
I am not skating
I am not yelling!
Those who fail to understand that I am truly a genius
Go ahead and laugh!
Ill gets my revenge, once my emotion stops
Masturbating to itself
Sue me
I am not understandable
Because I don’t have a choice to understand
I am a word
I am a breeze
I am the battle that one fights with the Jehovah’s witnesses
That seems to bother the dips
Dipping
Dipping
Dangling from our underwear
And frustrating our armpits
They then realize that they are arm pits
And have nothing to gain, except maybe more hair
Showing the impractical that they can become the wind
And food for those who are not examining their belongings.
Pigheaded and hotheaded and rocking their belonging to the
Reverse side of the sophomores
We’ve made everything a new
A new day and night where everyone is left fire.

Tell me what’s bugging you? And I’ll tell you what’s bugging me; I’ll tell you everything that is existential to the point that I may regret telling you. You should have second thoughts about living, because if you didn’t, I would question your sanity. I cry when I think of what will happen to me once I become one of the cynical cyclical life styles that I once found to be ideal. Nothingness, is my ultimate fear, losing one’s ‘self is the ultimate goal, to have forever, while gaining nothing is the fear that fears fear. Pitiful beings fail to comprehend, what I circumvent. I am the truth; I am what you want to be. Ignorance is not bliss young one, at least not in the sense I am speaking in regard with. Shapley shaping your future in ignorance, afraid of the truth becomes ignorances ignorant. Venting, constantly into the vent that never listened and then failed to vent. Instead of learning, she ignored me, accepting her way as the truth. But as I said, I am the ultimate truth. We all think that from time to time right? That we are right even though we may be wrong; that we guilty, but not like them. That we live in never never land fly with Peter,
I just don’t know anymore, staying true myself, hasn’t worked thus far. 22 years, 22 years of fulfilling myself, is similar to washing semen from the bottom of my shoe. Forever waiting on the corner for the bus to take to me to eternity gets lonely, and I become impatient. Strange people slowly enter my world, begging me to let them in the front door, I smile, and politely ask them to go around back and wash themselves off before they enter my already dirty home. They then smile, and tell me that they love me, they tell me they will do anything to keep me happy, they buy me things and did tell me that nothing will ever bother me. They scare me, I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone, not even myself. I keep them on fence waiting for an invite, like Mr. Feeny . Loving the world isn’t for everyone, especially me. Especially since I don’t love everything about the world. It all goes onward and outward….and nothing collapses. Nothing gives in, because if it did, then nothing would ever exist.
Have you ever noticed that people can melt in the sun, just like plastic?
Have you ever ran into something that makes your stomach peel like flowers on the bottom of the pie crust?
Have you ever thought maybe she wasn’t that in to you, so that would mean she must be out of you…right?
When I look in the mirror, my own reflection kind of laughs, so I kind of laugh back. He says to me, I am the truth of all things good gone bad. He told me not give up on life, and that my soul will eventually come to rest and everything will become relevant. I will then will then see the truth, and realize that I in fact know absolutely nothing. I then said, all I need is the feeling that life will never come to an end, I then smiled to myself realizing that will never ever be.
The realization is also infectious spinning my reality to the point that I may want to return it, in exchange for something more valuable like a bicycle.
The soul will never want me. The same situation seems to occur every time I spit into the leaves. I probably shouldn’t spit anymore.
The question that I ask unto you: what will become of me once you read my soul, what happens inside the trees that also drip with crazy stench of my blood?

Looking, looking , looking. Slowly and calmly, looking for the dividends or the soul. Looking, looking, looking, looking. Never-ending, looking, looking, seeking, looking for the missing parts to the machine that I once called my life. Looking seeking, looking, seeking for everything that I am accustomed to looking, but I call it something else, I call it glancing, but it is actually looking. Glancing is the antonym for everything that is real, or what we believe to be real. I understand looking is still an option as well, but looking, looking, looking is fearful
Hopefully hoping for a better tomorrow. Hopefully it comes soon, today looks gloomy. Gloomy for things I never that remain forever in my past. Pictures flying submitting their will, and to my surprise, they end up flying straight into their demise. Hopefully hoping, doesn’t promise anything. In fact, it creates false gestures, which may seem like hope, but is actually gloomy figurines, that march forward to their demise without ever even knowing it. Loving the abstract drunkenness of the Holy Scriptures leaves me in a bewildered state of mind, a state of unconscious thought that also leaves me hungry for the thirst of learning. Learners always learn when to call it quits, and when to fold. The learned (or the people who think they are learned) pretend that they learned everything that they need to know, but in fact they know nothing. Nothing knows nobody, and nobody knows everything, so why pretend? Why try? Who knows what may happen when we loose ourselves inside this world made for us, and no one else. We all know the how sentiments end, we end up going crazy and forgetting all that we have learned. We adopt new cultures and habits. We accept new likes and dislikes which can be changed easily as we change clothes. We find new friends, who eventually lead us to paths we’d never cross unless we were infectious fools, who actually believe that our lives can be beautiful, and can be lived beautifully with them, him or her.
And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses?
because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream.
They're in a circle and the river says, I've never understood
round things, why would leaving come back
to itself?
And a girl makes a kiss with her mouth and leans it
against the river, and the kiss flows away
but the river wants it back, the river makes sounds
to go after the kiss.
And they all make sounds for the river to carry to the boy.
And the river promises to never surrender the boy's shape
to the ocean.

These Strangers, in a foreign World, line 1096
Seem to me as if they another agenda
One that doesn’t quite align with those tell my fortunes
Fortunes of formalities between, the other strangers
My Reward for Being, was This. Poem343
All of nothing seems to be lively hood in the player’s rapture
Letting in the sea, opens new doors for the mustard
Looking for someone in my arms, in my tree.

Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights poem 1598
Open my heart and I shall you all that laughter
All that is retched and flimsy and dirty and lime.
Hurry and find the party
Then laugh at the fools who desperately try and seek the bicycle
Loving and light bulbs seems go hand and hand with stereo playing on full aims.
I can’t seem to figure out which them are for me
As seems as if the signs are getting clearer
Those strangers are hungry, lick them.
Bare Ivory, tickles my rat.
Why mustn’t we rub?
Why can’t everyone just bleed?
Everyone struggles, so die,
It may get better once the apples reach
the sun. Keep the date to yourself,
I lied, share the lies with nature.
It was not Saint- it was too large Line 1092
For me to fit in my wallet
So I left it on the floor,
where I find and lose everything else
That’s right
This loser loses his saint who keeps him imprisoned.
Imprisoned
keeping my mask around my hip.
Losing all that I have
Galloping leaping
Understanding the default is pointless,
unless a gun is involved.
Fearing the fear is always theme of styles
You’ve seen balloon set haven’t you poem 700
Jumping the balloons once were pricing them
Haven’t you ever wondered why they were there?
Understanding why the balloons weren’t there would be astonishing
Taking the hook shots with actual hooks weren’t very appealing
They were thirsty so they were in recession
They were then decayed from the drizzled death
Pricing uneducated impersonation
Dead, sleeping in new
Flash forward and comprehend the fortitude
A worldrockistic hominadical gladiator!
Hurray for the lesbians
Hurray to the brother on rleigft
And to the other side of him
Or shall I say her
Who hid the Vaseline from the devil
And hid the visine from the hearing impaired
How cruel to never understand the deaf
And the ones hid the picnic basket from the
Kelly from saved by the bell
Needless to say, I am the book
It should be obvious isn’t the cookie
Owning the monster by the bookcase?
He is now in rehab for lowering his standards
Similar to what I am doing now
We Pray To Heaven poem 489
That we won’t fail,
the trap has the goons
and the gnomes have my tail and refuse to let go
they understand and disagree with the sand
they fear all that righteous and flexible
please leave!
Trying to understand the ignorance
Is truly beautiful and mucus at the same time
Dumb is all the same to the JEWISH
+ is true meaning to life
Trust me I will not lead you astray unless you buy me diner
Then I will hate you
I know I am not making sense but you MUST trust that I will love you and make you a dryer and a sandwich.
Take my wrist and fingers and palm and finger nails with you as you leave and don’t let anything drop from your bag like the paper tends to do.
I love the sound of gasoline in the morning. It makes feel at ease when I distort thee
Please leave the O-bomb. Nothing will control thee as much the logical understand the document

My fists bleed death,
every time I utter the existence of the woman who cried, but couldn’t see.
The differences between relying and crying, is simple.
First, relax; know that there is an existential discrepancy between mysteries and gold.
Where did you go
Is there a pilot?
Is there a gate?
Is there an apprentice who pretends to wolf?
Wolfing leads to an impractical practice, which is kind of redundant (in my opinion).
The impractical practice then leads to pretenders,
pretending, that they indeed know everything about matters of the door.
Once I accidently found an outlet to all of my disappointment,
along with the theory that there is in fact,
27 letters to the alphabet.
I don’t quite understand it,
but it makes sense when you re-arrange your thoughts and align them with the thought of virtuous pretensions.
That’s right; it is I, who mastered the art of nothingness.
It was I, or shall I say me,
who is the becomer who politically, and poetically, has the potential to become potential.
It will then rain.
It will become everything that one could never imagine to fathom,
Hypothetically speaking, I am the capital between the capitals.
I am the one who unites the three or four needles, until ones wish to become evil
I take the course and then, insanity slowly seeps into the womb.
I ask you the question, is it worth the proof?
Is it worth the risk of being imperial?
O boy!
I believe that in order to break free the expression of the mindful tactics,
one must find the oppression of all that is mad.
Then make it appear to be something so genuine,
that one will find the operation and destroy evey mood that it has ever been.
After all, everything is given to those who believe that everything is the rational explanation of thought through the eyes that belong to sea.
There is no exception to animal the liberation. One day, there will be an execution to those who scrutinize the bewildered.
Following idioms or controlled services serve no purpose to life, kind of like the platypus.
I am certain that am I am the victim, or your millennium disguised heart.
I shall have revenge, as soon as I return from the savage land from which I came.
It is the splendor of being
I am the son of God, and a bastard.
I am a nun
You’ve done to me, just like they all have done.
They have came and rudely awaken the prince of peas,
that forces me to act in ways that only a microscopic prison, that can only bare to suspend your wrong for exactly 8.43 seconds….amazing!
It gives me pleasure knowing, that all life realties are foam.
Seriously, if you leave me, I will sue.
I will bring forth an incredible tub of being so large,
that it will become a part of culture, and you will then regret it.
I am a product of the rich grass that blows between the two who grew up and became real
Really real, the kind of real that doesn’t exist
The type of real that people dream to never become reality.
Who are you?
I said to her.
Eat me, eat my cone
She replied, hissing, begging for me to release her from her own domestic
Not I
No the ones who believe in the rectitude of telling the cold that I am hungry.
Telling people who can’t believe
Or refuse the smell of it.
Would you vote for me?
Would you lie for me?
We then battle, for the right to become the righteous androids on the lowest of the kingdoms.
I hate the spine, it is warm.
I love the absent minded thought of it all.

Colours of October
Wait with easy dignity
For the big change-
Like gorgeous quill-pens
In old inkwells
Almost dry.
The obliteration
Of the world
His dinner speech
Tonight we ride
Out to the window
Where the crystal ball shines
And then we drift,
To the places where we can barely imagine
Hardships sailing, nasty.
Thoughts of you
God is a woman
Bring me the lights
Evanescense
Love each other
Lets be the love that beds envy
The arbitrary one,
who believes in the bicycle
Talk to me!
Let go of all
cheeks
then Lend me your
Pickles, pencils, and peppermints
So that I may do the do
Then tell me you love me
So that I may eat you
Then throw up all of the things that I like
Which is not quite nothing
But automatic easy
Fear me like the easy
Be on the hard, as if it were ...hard
Have faith young one, the worst is almost here
Fight the romantic vents
They spew lies,
In the heart of the deaf
Because they are misunderstood beyond understandinization
They try to romatinticize the vaginal exploration of thought
But to his circumcision
He was only given money, and tooth paste.
He sold the tooth paste, for a comforter, so that he could re-anna
And
Holly, and Beth, and Stephanie, and Kristi.
Baby, wait
Lets reconsider
I promise I really am a decent n___r
I promise I can falsify and satirize, the wet brick..
Just take my had, follow me
into the place that was made for you and your mother
I always liked her more than you
I owe you
I want you to follow
Kill your foot
I used to be banned from the cabinet
But only few can exist be spot on
Hit me because I am wrong
Learn the facts because they are truly anklets
And their true purpose... is sinister
Gather the rings.
Then get cut
Then get stabbed and explode on those who wrap.
Cut the swallong sea,
lay cement down.
Throw away purposes and
Have you written a poem for us? he asks the river,
and the river reads its poem,
and the other students tell the river
it sounds like a poem the boy would have written,
that they smell the boy's cigarettes
in the poem, they feel his teeth
biting the page.

Keep the roll
Show the walk, be the understandinziation
That once followed the underling
Feel the whoa
And the drunkiness of the escape
Run away from the paper
Because it is hungry
LETS GO
I have to pee...
Lets eat the two words because they made fun of me
Lets get the lochness
Because you are a monster who
Could
Barely need new shoes.
I had drool on my shirt and breath
of the undead, a guy
dropped empty Buds on the floor
like gravity was born
to provide this service,
we were white and black trash
who'd come
in an outhouse on wheels and still

some had grown--
in touching the spirited shirts
on clotheslines,
after watching a sky of starlings
flow like cursive
over wheat--back into creatures
capable of a wish.

As we entered Arizona
I thought I smelled the ocean,
liked the lie of this
and closed my eyes
as shadows
puppeted against my lids.