TomKohlsi
10-21-2010, 10:38 PM
OK, here goes - please be nice as this is my first post and I'm only 18 so I daresay I'm not as rounded or talented as prettymuch anyone on this site.
Empty Words
Gripped by the midnight muse,
I breathlessly scribble down my thoughts,
Unaware that it’s foolish,
To try and examine myself on paper
Unaware that I’ll soon be awake,
And sober-minded,
Though I’m not drunk.
But the sombre music
Makes me wish that I were,
And the more I think,
The less I’m sure,
That what I feel is nothing more
Than the adolescent, hormonal
Turmoil, felt by all peoples,
Or something more sinister
Hiding in my soul by day
And scurrying out at night
To possess my fingers
And make me write things
That I can’t remember thinking
And to think things,
That I can’t imagine writing
And to feel things,
That I shouldn’t ….shouldn’t
Be feeling
But still I scribble on,
Deluding myself that I have talent
Tricking myself into thinking
That what I write is good
That what I write is more
Than just the random outbursts
From a normal mind
In a normal person
Stuck in an abnormal place
With an abnormal fear
A fear of not mattering
Of not being remembered
And it is with this
That half formed plans
And schemes to be known creep
Silently, stealthily, but surely
Into my mind and out of my fingers,
Seeping out of my pores
And onto my pencil,
Dripping down onto the page
To form a solid scrawl
Of nothingness,
A nothingness containing nothing,
Complete nothingness
And here is the centre of the nothingness,
The centre of the midnight muse
As the sombre music drones on
And my non-existent turmoil grows
I pick up my pencil,
And begin to write,
Empty
Words.
Empty Words
Gripped by the midnight muse,
I breathlessly scribble down my thoughts,
Unaware that it’s foolish,
To try and examine myself on paper
Unaware that I’ll soon be awake,
And sober-minded,
Though I’m not drunk.
But the sombre music
Makes me wish that I were,
And the more I think,
The less I’m sure,
That what I feel is nothing more
Than the adolescent, hormonal
Turmoil, felt by all peoples,
Or something more sinister
Hiding in my soul by day
And scurrying out at night
To possess my fingers
And make me write things
That I can’t remember thinking
And to think things,
That I can’t imagine writing
And to feel things,
That I shouldn’t ….shouldn’t
Be feeling
But still I scribble on,
Deluding myself that I have talent
Tricking myself into thinking
That what I write is good
That what I write is more
Than just the random outbursts
From a normal mind
In a normal person
Stuck in an abnormal place
With an abnormal fear
A fear of not mattering
Of not being remembered
And it is with this
That half formed plans
And schemes to be known creep
Silently, stealthily, but surely
Into my mind and out of my fingers,
Seeping out of my pores
And onto my pencil,
Dripping down onto the page
To form a solid scrawl
Of nothingness,
A nothingness containing nothing,
Complete nothingness
And here is the centre of the nothingness,
The centre of the midnight muse
As the sombre music drones on
And my non-existent turmoil grows
I pick up my pencil,
And begin to write,
Empty
Words.