Saturday, March 24, 2001


today, I woke up to the sound of rain beating against the window panes. Sounded to me like a thousand wishes covering the earth with their every move... If I don't make sense, its probably just the coffee... Staying up late at night, to finish off poems. I can envision the words forming on the paper. descriptive, destructive, unobtrusive from the fact that there does exist some kind of basis for redemption. redemption from what? from myself, from too much self indulgence. so I write, to get things off my chest. speak easy, talk easy. I breathe in words, like I need air. yet last night, my poems were elusive. Slipping through the cracks of my imagination like sand, like a cold darkness staring right back at me from the corners of my hollow mind.

If I could only write today, what it is that gets me so upset. I could just picture the words falling into place. last night befor I got home, I went to a poetry reading at Prince books, sipped hot chocolate with foamy whipped cream and listened to them sing their hearts out with the blatant melodies that can only come from speaking your words. It got me thinking. what determines what a good poem is? Is a good poem, like a cat? waiting with ominous dark eyes to pounce at you with a smooth steady current. Seeping, flodding, overwhelming one's desire, to write, to hear, words that can make or break you. Like me, have I come to the end of the line? waiting for the next train to take me home....