Futile
When was it begun?
This whistling silence
The static that fills my speech
My mind haunted
Arriving to their ears unaided.
Where did it start?
This verbal invisibility
The unwillingness to hear
My words virtually unspoken
Thinking aloud to no avail.
Why is it possible?
This imagination stunted
The unintentional hurt
My unacknowledged contribution
Feeling no worth.
Knowing there is no end
This pain grinding beneath the skin
The scars to be gouged deep
My questions unanswered
Knowing no future.
Sometimes a poem speaks louder than the words that I can write. And as writing goes I have decided that my little project to write a short story a week is crap. I have such trouble writing things. And I may be good at description but what does that honestly mean? I cannot seem to string together a real plot line. And what is a story without a plot? The only story that I, right now, really want to never let go of is the Mosterpiece. It is a part of my life. It is a huge part of me. And it is the only place where I feel like my voice is truly heard.
But I am in a Futilist mood just now. I keep thinking how I am contributing nothing to anyone. No one listens to me. I seem to be able to say something a hundred times and not have a word of it heard. (And, t-chan I am not meaning you. You are probably the only one in this freakin' hell that hears what I say and listens to it. But not having you to constantly talk to is hard. So very hard on me sometime.) I am feeling like it doesn't matter what I say. No one listens. I hate being ignored when I am the only other person in a vehicle and the only person making any input.
I wish I was still in school. Or could join the military. Or was a part of a club. Something with some sort of purpose. Any sort of purpose. But I have no goals. Just to keep my job and to start a Retirement Fund of my own so that I don't end up like my father - in debt forever and wishing for better without hope for it.
Enough bitching b/c I know that no one will be reading this for at least a few days and there is no point in letting out here what I feel like I cannot let go of. . .
Oh and here - this too:
Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Escape by Carolyn Jessop with Laura Palmer
Armageddon Summer by Jane Yolen and Bruce Coville
Brides of Eden by Linda Crew
Green Angel by Alice Hoffman
The Dollmage by Martine Leavitt
Cut by Patricia McCormick
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
Don't You Dare Read This Mrs. Dunphrey by Margaret Peterson Haddix
Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes
Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman
The Freedom Writer's Diary by The Freedom Writers and Erin Gruwell
Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Wartime by Zlata Filipovic
13 / 24 books. 54% of the new goal done!
This whistling silence
The static that fills my speech
My mind haunted
Arriving to their ears unaided.
Where did it start?
This verbal invisibility
The unwillingness to hear
My words virtually unspoken
Thinking aloud to no avail.
Why is it possible?
This imagination stunted
The unintentional hurt
My unacknowledged contribution
Feeling no worth.
Knowing there is no end
This pain grinding beneath the skin
The scars to be gouged deep
My questions unanswered
Knowing no future.
Sometimes a poem speaks louder than the words that I can write. And as writing goes I have decided that my little project to write a short story a week is crap. I have such trouble writing things. And I may be good at description but what does that honestly mean? I cannot seem to string together a real plot line. And what is a story without a plot? The only story that I, right now, really want to never let go of is the Mosterpiece. It is a part of my life. It is a huge part of me. And it is the only place where I feel like my voice is truly heard.
But I am in a Futilist mood just now. I keep thinking how I am contributing nothing to anyone. No one listens to me. I seem to be able to say something a hundred times and not have a word of it heard. (And, t-chan I am not meaning you. You are probably the only one in this freakin' hell that hears what I say and listens to it. But not having you to constantly talk to is hard. So very hard on me sometime.) I am feeling like it doesn't matter what I say. No one listens. I hate being ignored when I am the only other person in a vehicle and the only person making any input.
I wish I was still in school. Or could join the military. Or was a part of a club. Something with some sort of purpose. Any sort of purpose. But I have no goals. Just to keep my job and to start a Retirement Fund of my own so that I don't end up like my father - in debt forever and wishing for better without hope for it.
Enough bitching b/c I know that no one will be reading this for at least a few days and there is no point in letting out here what I feel like I cannot let go of. . .
Oh and here - this too:
Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Escape by Carolyn Jessop with Laura Palmer
Armageddon Summer by Jane Yolen and Bruce Coville
Brides of Eden by Linda Crew
Green Angel by Alice Hoffman
The Dollmage by Martine Leavitt
Cut by Patricia McCormick
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
Don't You Dare Read This Mrs. Dunphrey by Margaret Peterson Haddix
Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes
Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman
The Freedom Writer's Diary by The Freedom Writers and Erin Gruwell
Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Wartime by Zlata Filipovic
13 / 24 books. 54% of the new goal done!