I think of myself as an enigma.I don’t know why. Maybe because I like the sound of the word. Or because in my quest to understand myself, i am still not sure who I am.
At times I enjoy really loud music and dance so tirelessly to the beat of words i cant decipher. At times i delve so deep into myself one might think i am a loner.At times i am laughing out so loud with my friends over nothing and everything. Other times…
Other times i am just reading books, earphones on, coffee within my reach and the world so far away. Scribbling…Smiling. Frowning.
A poet, with the right muse. If that’s a thing.
I like intelligent people who can hold a conversation and pique my interest. Otherwise i easily get bored with the world and its mediocrity.
Passionate. Intense. Deep. Take that any way you want.
Pocket knife poetry…because even that rugged cowboy downing his beer and staring into nothingness can scrawl words of wisdom using his pocketknife. Recalling a past he never quite molded right and contemplating a future that is bleak.
Regardless… it’s his scrawled words on the counter-top that save the life of the next guy about to give up on life. It’s his spidery poems on the napkin that put a smile and some light on the hopeless bartender’s face.
Pocket-knife poetry… because once in a while we need words from a random stranger, carelessly strung in no particular order or hurry to keep us on our feet. Because it’s the life in the dying words that breaths life to our fading dreams.
Pocket-knife poetry, because i identify with the gutter. Because i have done my fair share of crawling and know that every cloud has it’s silver lining.
So yeah, pocket-knife poetry because i have no use for diaries and neatly strung words written in the comfort of some expensive settee.