ListenerFriendly's profile

Disillusioned. Probably the best word you could sum up my existence with. I seem to wade through the tides of life with contrasting hope and fear, guilt and satisfaction, love and lust, loss and gain. I am a post-modernist poet, perhaps a prophet that foresees my own downfall. Like a painter pinning details on every inch of his canvas, I could continue pinning up labels and terms from which you could resurrect my image—crucified with pen and ink. Yet I prefer to have you piece together who I am from my own feeble work. Gain an idea of who I am from my raw perspectives. While the image may be distorted at best, at least you have something you can touch and feel. You have substance that is characterized by emotions no one can ever paint w…

Disillusioned. Probably the best word you could sum up my existence with. I seem to wade through the tides of life with contrasting hope and fear, guilt and satisfaction, love and lust, loss and gain. I am a post-modernist poet, perhaps a prophet that foresees my own downfall. Like a painter pinning details on every inch of his canvas, I could continue pinning up labels and terms from which you could resurrect my image—crucified with pen and ink. Yet I prefer to have you piece together who I am from my own feeble work. Gain an idea of who I am from my raw perspectives. While the image may be distorted at best, at least you have something you can touch and feel. You have substance that is characterized by emotions no one can ever paint with a brush or tell with mere words. To put it flat out: I am sick of constraints and the Communistic ideas of conformity that our society pushes on each person. Educational, political, and even some artistic institutions have hammered our skulls with images of exactly who and what we should be. With the bloodiest knife, we’re killing the individual—the beautiful creation God made. The idea that each and every human being is a different person. Perhaps What I’m trying to relate here with my casual fragments and scattered ideas is less than captivating. I am my worst critic, what you shout at me I’ve already gunned through my brains a thousand times over. Perhaps that is what makes my lyrics and poetry, my writing and critiques what they are. In an age of “REPEAT AFTER ME” propaganda, I am an idealist and a dreamer. Perhaps I am a terrible communicator with dying relationships and a sensitive mind. Maybe a rebel that, at times, even stands against the confines of meter and rhyme. While I may eat the same bowl of oatmeal every morning for breakfast, I’ll rarely recycle the same form and ideas. One moment you may read a sonnet, the next the most scattered piece of prose. Perhaps I am in a generation that pulls its influences from Radiohead and Bob Dylan as opposed to Longfellow and Frost. Disillusioned, hurting, spiritually searching for truth and substance, discovering, and rejecting.

elementalvortex.blogspot.com