Thank you all for the birthday wishes. I would thank you all individually but I don't have the time. 
Playing my piano or my violin, even singing.... all of this is causing me so much frustration. And I haven't found the inspiration to finish my latest painting. (And I'm not willing to make such a mess working on it again....) I live for these creative activities but lately I just haven't been able to bring myself to do anything creative. Today I had to go to the tattoo shop to talk about a touch up on my back. Afterwards, I went to a coffee shop (I don't drink coffee... I was so out of my element) and I brought my laptop. I just started to write. err... type... and... well I guess that's my new creative outlet. which isn't new because I've been doing poetry for years. I just stopped because the only thing that would get me to write decent shit was to get high or pop some xtc or something... I figured that since I'm done with drugs I won't be able to write. I was so wrong. not to say I'm doing anything worth reading, but it's just nice to get thoughts out....
Baudelaire is by far the most amazing poet I have ever read. What an inspiration:
"Autumn"
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
Playing my piano or my violin, even singing.... all of this is causing me so much frustration. And I haven't found the inspiration to finish my latest painting. (And I'm not willing to make such a mess working on it again....) I live for these creative activities but lately I just haven't been able to bring myself to do anything creative. Today I had to go to the tattoo shop to talk about a touch up on my back. Afterwards, I went to a coffee shop (I don't drink coffee... I was so out of my element) and I brought my laptop. I just started to write. err... type... and... well I guess that's my new creative outlet. which isn't new because I've been doing poetry for years. I just stopped because the only thing that would get me to write decent shit was to get high or pop some xtc or something... I figured that since I'm done with drugs I won't be able to write. I was so wrong. not to say I'm doing anything worth reading, but it's just nice to get thoughts out....
Baudelaire is by far the most amazing poet I have ever read. What an inspiration:
"Autumn"
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
So did you get many prezzzies in the end?
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