Yes, your photo still sleeps
Underneath my pillow
Because i like the way
It feels like
You're still breathing
At the back of my neck
So haphazardly,
Like the way
You scribble your poems
On my frail arm
Underneath my pillow
Because i like the way
It feels like
You're still breathing
At the back of my neck
So haphazardly,
Like the way
You scribble your poems
On my frail arm
The 9th Annual Writers Workshop has just blown its curtains down. So far, this is the best thing i've learnt...
Poetry is a different language. Altogether a different one. It has implicit rules, weird kinds of freedom and tasty colors.
When somebody asks you, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and you answer " I want to be a poet", they will either laugh at you, look at you sympathetically and tell you to get a "more secure" job or ask you "Aside from that...?"
(Should i let you see me smirk?)
I'm not complaining. I mean, i have been one of those pessimists/"realists" before. But I realized that i SHOULD teach myself how to LIVE. And fully LIVE.
I can't afford to be confined with papers and lunch meetings and iMacs. Deadlines, boss liaisons and gasoline. Of SMS deals, paychecks and rebonded hair.
I want to write. I like its mystery. I like its energy. I'm obsessed with it---whatever it exactly is---throbbing inside me...like a baby of five months.
Go.
Go find me a rich husband. Because I'll just write... :)
Poetry is a different language. Altogether a different one. It has implicit rules, weird kinds of freedom and tasty colors.
When somebody asks you, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and you answer " I want to be a poet", they will either laugh at you, look at you sympathetically and tell you to get a "more secure" job or ask you "Aside from that...?"
(Should i let you see me smirk?)
I'm not complaining. I mean, i have been one of those pessimists/"realists" before. But I realized that i SHOULD teach myself how to LIVE. And fully LIVE.
I can't afford to be confined with papers and lunch meetings and iMacs. Deadlines, boss liaisons and gasoline. Of SMS deals, paychecks and rebonded hair.
I want to write. I like its mystery. I like its energy. I'm obsessed with it---whatever it exactly is---throbbing inside me...like a baby of five months.
Go.
Go find me a rich husband. Because I'll just write... :)
3 comments:
And i just remembered DEAD POETS SOCIETY. so yeah.. let's go find ourselves rich husbands, then we can be artists and writers and FREE SPIRITS! heck! We can even be peace advocates.. and we won't even have to worry about going hungry.. rich old men.. where are those dirty rich old men?! Hehehe..
MISS YOU KARLA!
yea i love that film. i'm also recommending Il Postino(The Postman). It's about Pablo Neruda[partly, but BIG partly].
i liked the idea of being a peace activist too. hehehe
miss you too girl! :)
Well said.
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