deepundergroundpoetry.com
The blank product of the infinite canvas
Mind, you are a blank page in time's journal.
Most would write in pen, a permanence, resonating
leaving pressure imprints on every page of the long blue-black galleries.
A memoir written in ink, recorded in time.
Yes, handwritten passages are oft subject to change of form, but always there is a continuity, a signature of being pulsating through the pages like a heart beating.
Cardiac response is an unknown resident in this journal.
Traces of blood and life are always there,
but never in abundance, never in the obvious fashion exhibited by its counterparts.
The author only sees these, and too often they evade him too, leading the anonymity of persona to full view in favour of a life.
And pen cannot be found anywhere.
Light imprints of pencil on page, and erasers shavings.
Writer's block, that cruel facade,
has left too many pages blank,
turning and turning.
Always, like the wheel of a hearse moving to its occupant's destination.
The author begins many different passages, but interest always recedes, leaving hollow sympathies.
Sweet world of everything to project a being onto paper, but overwhelming is the task.
Drawing forth nothing but blank agonies.
Most would write in pen, a permanence, resonating
leaving pressure imprints on every page of the long blue-black galleries.
A memoir written in ink, recorded in time.
Yes, handwritten passages are oft subject to change of form, but always there is a continuity, a signature of being pulsating through the pages like a heart beating.
Cardiac response is an unknown resident in this journal.
Traces of blood and life are always there,
but never in abundance, never in the obvious fashion exhibited by its counterparts.
The author only sees these, and too often they evade him too, leading the anonymity of persona to full view in favour of a life.
And pen cannot be found anywhere.
Light imprints of pencil on page, and erasers shavings.
Writer's block, that cruel facade,
has left too many pages blank,
turning and turning.
Always, like the wheel of a hearse moving to its occupant's destination.
The author begins many different passages, but interest always recedes, leaving hollow sympathies.
Sweet world of everything to project a being onto paper, but overwhelming is the task.
Drawing forth nothing but blank agonies.
Published 7th Nov 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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comments 3
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
7th Nov 2012 8:38pm
BORED. this bores me.
'oft' is a word oft used by pretentious asswipes so please to be sure you could not instead use the earthier "often". If you mean bruises, say bruises.
THIS: "Cardiac response is an unknown resident in this journal.
Traces of blood and life are always there,
but never in abundance, never in the obvious fashion"
this I like, once i got past the numbing boredom of another blank page metaphor.
disclaimer: This is the internet. I am nobody. Do what you like.
'oft' is a word oft used by pretentious asswipes so please to be sure you could not instead use the earthier "often". If you mean bruises, say bruises.
THIS: "Cardiac response is an unknown resident in this journal.
Traces of blood and life are always there,
but never in abundance, never in the obvious fashion"
this I like, once i got past the numbing boredom of another blank page metaphor.
disclaimer: This is the internet. I am nobody. Do what you like.
7th Nov 2012 9:09pm
Save your disclaimers! I mark "honest criticism" for a reason, not just for the sake of feigning nobility but expecting only nice things to be said.
I appreciate the feedback an awful lot, negativity leads to improvement.
I like to bring in older English like 'oft' into poems from time to time not because of some pretentious age-superiority complex, but simply because I like the sound of it. Your point is noted, nevertheless!
I appreciate the down-to-earth critical approach, I'll take your feedback on board.
I appreciate the feedback an awful lot, negativity leads to improvement.
I like to bring in older English like 'oft' into poems from time to time not because of some pretentious age-superiority complex, but simply because I like the sound of it. Your point is noted, nevertheless!
I appreciate the down-to-earth critical approach, I'll take your feedback on board.
Anonymous
13th Jan 2014 5:15am
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