jane i do not write for you.
i do not write for acceptance.
i do not write for praise.
i do not write for criticism.
i write for the sake of writing.
i write for me.
i write to write.

i have my own life,
you have yours.

you may think i am a bitch
or a slut
or naive
or a bad writer.
you may think i am weak.
i am me.
and if i can live with myself everyday,
you should be able to too.
and if you can live with yourself everyday,
then you've succeeded.
i do not write for you.
i write to write.
i write because it is important to me.
i write for myself.
mt w00t! 030930
DannyH And then you Blather to see what happens when you communicate that self expression to others. 030930
jane ask_jane 030930
pipedream right on! i write for me, i dress for me and if you're going to mess around with my head so you can control me you have another thing going.
why is it that most guys in my life take it upon themselves to be the ones to deflate my ego? stupid, stupid, stupid....when you pretend to know everything its rather obvious you don't at all...at all
Syrope so i can't wish that sometimes you'd read and sometimes you wouldn't.

but i do
Lemon_Soda As a writer...

HELL yay.

You go girl.
oldephebe so agrees with jane jane - hear..hear!!! 031005
oldephebe and yet..after all these fuminations..i cannot conjure the tirades and tempests..or even tenderness to take the magic back and compell it to bleed into my breath..thank you blather for these brief but glittering distractions..i fear the bells pull rope has been engaged..and now these loudly haunting final hours..have drug out their decree..these endless idols mocking in the mirage i made out of me..or vice versa..i glory in my time here..really..i have..o infinite banquet of babble..O grand sire of some of the most palpable shards of hope that i have dared to entertain..these past few months..i just want to say thank you to all of you..every one especially those that have challenged me
so many of you are so incredibly talented..I mean real talent..and not the excess of exhibition and clever juxtapositions..and please no encouragement or words of validation of whatever..i'm not writing this for that and i'm not particularly interested at this hour what either side of the coin would cast at my uncaring heart..my heart truly goes out to every one here..I have been a howling ghost for far too long..far too long..far too long....love is possible, love can shape something incandescent in the most desolate of hearts..God whatever you may call him or her rcichly bless all of you..
ferret i love it, just last month everybody was criticizing and hating. but now there's so much love ^_^ i love it. keep it up everyone 031006
pipedream *agrees with ferret*

group hug!
(um..a little TOO sappy?)
beautiful, phebes, you make my mornings :)
oE right bact at ya pd! 031023
[sarcasm] you all suck. 031023
oldephebe inveterate sucker personally i do have a hankerin' for some butterscotch..or maybe whiskey sours..could hook a fellow sucker up brah? i guess if you just have jollu rancher that'd be okay too 031023
oE pistachios!! i love their lightly salted taste..and then just sucking the red stuff off of them..it's great if you're just lying in bed skin to skin with your girlfriend and lolling away the hours watching B movies on cable..although all the red stuff is hard to wash off sometimes...oh and root berr barrels..the all natural kind..there's a little store in center city philly that carries them..luv 'em!!

from one sucker to another
oh and lemon drops! (all natural of course!)
shivers i know this will sounds really corny, but i like mentos.
And those caramels....hmmmmmm
my mouth is watering
nom i've made toffee
it's fun i love it
nom yesterday i discovered jolly beans
jelly beans minus all the bleep
minnesota_chris I wish you would. I like you, and I like me. 031024
oldephebe i do not write for you
i do not sing for you
i want to fill this barren field
with sprites and the dance of winter lights and fauna frolicking like tigger and pooh on smack
i want to fill these pages with
satiric verisimilitude
and just a word..a pap smear so broad
in its depths ringing something hollow
and shimmering ebullience in its breaths
and when the brown round tone blinks into the black
i want to embalm this
i want to tear the very heart out of winter..i want to etch a dagguerotype of the terror i see clouding in your eyes..the one brief flickering moment of truth that passed between us..and i want to see you drunk and stumbling down the stairs..and see you wrap a shawl around your shame..although i wear your face i cannot begin to assume the mantle of the master raconteur..
the ravages of spirit..the ribaldries that scalded her ears..the coarse and close intimacy of that fraternity..i will never touch upon it..upon that
i want to sit in an oak panelled bar
and see the spirits shimmer in the glass
watch the shape your hands assume..so casual and aloof and yet an inescapable affinity with this appendage..the glass the ice..the bourbon sipped slowly..affectionately from the glass
i want to take that which had hung in the air between us all those years
and spread it wide upon the credense table..i want to know the man who spoke in these majestic breadths..the man who had fists like cinder blocks and yet was so gentle..so aloof towards me..the man who sent men into oblivion
one blow and one hastily slurred word
and they were prostrate upon the pavement...a man of immaculate manhood
all i ever felt was a vague sense of discomfature..and a vague sense of pride or familiarity..
i do not write for you
i am not you
but as the years etche a character in this face the man i see more resembles you..these things that whispered vaguely in the air between us are now spreading their wings wide
i don't want to become you
i don't want to be aloof
i don't want to seek some desolate solace in the smoke and steam of a barley inebriate.. i don't want to be this great house of splendor that has fallen down..i don't want my relationships to be defined by strain and exasperation
but i fear that i am becoming you
no, not the man with cinder block cudgels raining furious blows upon some hapless bar patron who has stayed well past his time..but the man who was so irrevocably alone..who sat up nights and mimed a mirage through his days..
sometimes father i saw the ache..the lonliness cloud your eyes..just for an instant..and then you'd fill the awkward space with that phenomenal photographic memory..and fill my head with exacting forensic prodigies of recall..your recall..estuaries of the esoteric..and i remember at those moments being filled with the poignancy of your sorrow..that now it became my sorrow..a kind of transgenerational cross pollination..and then the notion of daylight burning..
yea i have come at last to myself
the self i searched for as an ephebe
wanted to define myself by something besides my ( )parentage
yea i have come to myself at last
a self i spent so long searching for..
and now i want to be unhinged from the past, the present..my profound lapses of ( )but there is elucing the harsh judgement i have meted out to myself..no tender eye of light beams down upon me..i have this panic that is rising in my throat..when i confront the totality of what i have not honored.
paul had his damascus epiphany..struck with holy blindness so he could see what he had become..and how he must atone..and yet i am clinging tenaciously to this rot that eats at me like black moss growing over a soul..
clinging..remembering so acutely every lapse and every shame..O what calamity waits for me in the wings?
and in the interegnum between these precocious winter breaths...autumn is a slow dying fire..and now i try to hide this terror from my son..and from my family and friends..but they see it..
i do not write for you..but it seems the score is being written out of you..
the end from the beggining the requiem has begun..and i have heard its score since those early young years..slender shadow growing tall in the field of dusk
celestias shadow i do not write for you. no, then, who do i write for? i do not write for myself, not as an egotistical measure of something. not to tell people a hobby. "i like to see movies, listen to music, write, and take long walks on the beach." no, no, it's not a filler in a resume of my life. never a filler. if anything, it's the aspiration, the thing all the fillers add up to. my life, my love, everything that i do, i pour it into myself and then i pour it right back out onto the paper. the wide swaths of crimson and green, the colors that light my life; these colors are gray, black and blue. every color in the rainbow is contained in the brilliant dullness of my pens.
above all, i hate a blank paper. nature is not the only thing that abhors a vacuum. i write not for you, not for me, not for anything i can see or name or feel or taste, but for something else. something that tells me, this is the thing i must do. it never told me it would be so hard, it never told me it would be so frustrating. it never told me that its compelling voice would not be enough, that i would need talent as well, talent i will never have. oh no, it told me nothing of this.

it only tells me, this is what i must do.
< bump 040809
pete i write because if i didnt my blood would clot; ink is my blood.

let the ink flow!
unhinged i write because of you 040810
given up I just don't really care about it anymore and when that happens...quit. I just don't want to fucking do it.
I just want to watch reality shows.
once again I do not write for me. Or you. Whoever you are. I write for, life maybe? Although I'm not sure that's the right word. I write for the eternal honesty of self expression through the phonetical symbols that create syllables that in turn form, in some magical way, the meanings to the whole world.

I write, I geuss, because I have to. Because if I didn't maybe the world would end, or maybe I would. I write becuase it's the only thing I can do. I put the little letters down.

There's only twenty-six of them you know.

And they make something that I did not intend, or maybe I did. Something wholly different then a mere symbol of a sound. They make a picture or a feeling or a shade of emotion.

I write, I think, for the writing.
oldephebe they make an incandescent sound like armor clashing, the forest catches fire
the fire leaps out of our eyes, and great oars are hewn out of the eternal oak of our own divinely bequeathed individuality, out of our creative tumult great oars are hewn that drive us remorselessly through the spume and churned sweat of clashing and inevitable tides of circumstance...but we are here in this place, on this page...out of any age the falcon screaming from the sky screaming towards your eyes, the craven the coward the tyrant sage the boody whelp of a blighted age and a lightless soundless womb quaking with venerable rage...my pen is filled with fire this night, and on any other night so too is yours...
spell much? "...the bloody whelp of..." 040811
somebody ... 040811
witchesrequiem I would be a liar! 040812
u24 i write because i have words. If you read them, then they are for you. enjoy the gift. 040812
randomly recent ! 070406
unhinged i write to remember

a la at_the_drive_in
what's it to you?
who go