Ink and Blood

Ink and Blood
Stoned and half in love
With questions
And passions
Pipe illusions.
(cigarette break)
Masochistically perfect,
The poet in love.
The conflict rages:
Does the poet,
Or the lover
See eternity?
Or tomorrow
Will both be dead?
Ink and blood both bleached

Colors change together
Acted on by
Creativity’s confusions
Idealists’ delusions
Spinning spinning perfect
Permanently drug induced
And poems are only truth
As heard through a mad-man’s ear

I think 16 year old me tried to pack too much into one poem here.  Reading this in a coffee shop got me censored years ago.  Something about content not suitable for a ‘family’ establishment.  The place was packed with college students older than me, and I did tend to pack the house to standing room-only and a line out the door waiting to buy drinks.

I’m still trying to figure out how to balance relationships and my muse.  She can be particularly demanding at times and so far has always won.  Maybe someday I will have the opportunity to find out what it would look like to have an intimate, strong relationship with enough space my muse doesn’t get smothered and pissed off.  Every lover, boyfriend, husband I’ve had has been unable to compete and unwilling to compromise.  The inevitable result being that ink has outlasted blood and pens have proven more powerful than penises.

And I’m still an idealist.  I’ve been told that being 30-something means I should be mature enough to out grow it.  If anything I cling ever more tightly to the ideals of justice, equality, sustainability.  I’m still the 12 year old dreamer who was given a through un-welcome for asking too many questions and caring too much for a small-town fundamentalist church.  I’ll keep dreaming, thank you very much.

But I am not stoned all the time.  That is one change I am happy to embrace.

About m

My ego wants to think I'm a writer but my heart knows I'm just another one of God's Kids who sometimes has words to say. 2 human kids and 3 feline kids call me Mom. Or Mooooooom. Or mewom, depending which you ask. I'm kinda-sorta busy being a student again; this time I signed myself up for a bizarre torture known as Graduate School. Theoretically in 4ish years I'll have earned some more nice letters to put with my name. Let's face it, I'm addicted to learning and probably need rehab to restore me to sanity and remove the obsession to read books. I don't remember what free time is but I think I like to spend it sleeping or playing in the mud on a river bank.
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1 Response to Ink and Blood

  1. Pingback: unspoken | stories of survival

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