Thursday, September 08, 2016

When I write, part of my process is projecting my consciousness into another, albeit fictional, being. Much of what I write sounds like it is about me about you about us, but in reality it is about Them. The characters. In my most recent post, I had abstract feelings of negativity and was feeling down. One of the most awful, negative and betraying things I can think of, to me personally, is lying and deceit. So, I channeled that along with a projection of myself into a liar as a way of venting off general negativity.

Someone who lies all the time must be lonely, and empty inside. They aren't truthful themselves, so must question everything about themselves and others, until they curl up into a ball and retreat. The poem is actually incredibly simple and literal. I was going to take it a step further and start projecting into a person who lies so much that they can no longer distinguish the truth from a lie, and to the point where they themselves don't even realize they're lying anymore - they believe their own lies so completely. These people, I find, are the most scary type of deceitful individuals. I left it at that ending because it seemed to just fit and just end. It sounds cliche, but when I write these things they actually have a life of their own. They write themselves. I feel a poem or story or rambling percolating and I need to let it out. So I start, and I write, and when it's done it finishes itself. It's very odd.



Wednesday, September 07, 2016

Oh what little we'll believe
When first learning to deceive
Some things wicked, some things wise
Some Things inside that you despise
Second guess the shaky ground
Foundation built that isn't sound
Hollow out your inner self
And put your morals on the shelf
Crawl inside your empty shell
And live in your own private hell
Ruminate till you ferment
The isolation you lament
All alone and never free
Happiness? A memory.



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