The Poet

I was listening to some music the other day. The words were so beautiful and then I got a buzz from an admirer”why won’t you show me affection?”. I wanted to say “my soul doesn’t acknowledge you, you can’t spin words that make the fire that is my spirit rage” but he wouldn’t understand because it wouldn’t have been plain enough for him. If you’ve read a couple of my posts,you’d know that I am just not interested. I’m not broken(maybe a little,I feel like I portray some depth that way), I’m just not ready.
I read some blog the other day, and she wrote: I know what it is like to have so much to say but no voice to say it. I’m no poet but I’d like to be. I want to meet one,deep,bearded,long haired,tattooed,pierced. I’d like to look in his/ her mind and marvel at how large the world spans . I will see the ocean in the eyes of the poet but he will make me appreciate the stars. Till I find my ground,ill keep trying.
Words spun properly have always touched me in ways material things couldn’t(I love me some stuff!). I like the idea of laying awake at night talking about nothing,something and everything. I like the depth,the substance. I like to be fascinated,enamored, infatuated even. I know in the end the electricity will dim,the pleasure will dull,your eyes will wander,your groin will break promises but when we decide to sit down,if our minds can connect, I won’t regret the pieces of my eternity I have given you.

Standard Rant from B
Honor Thyself

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