Glass half full, get bucket, more on the way!
After some deliberation, I consider myself an optimist. I do have pessimistic moments and some bad days. Despite those, I remain optimistic. Experience has moved me along the continuum from pessimism, through realism, to optimism.
I don't think anyone wants to be pessimistic, so pardon me for glossing over that end of the spectrum. I'll admit to being biased, but realists are missing out. Too often, it seems, realists accept life the way it is just because it is. Or maybe they settle for less than they want; using words like unfeasible and unrealistic. What they really mean is "I don't want it that bad, it costs too much." I think realists are just afraid of being disappointed; perhaps they are pessimists in disguise!
Where's the hope? I choose to believe that life is full of possibilities. Everything is unrealistic...until it's not, or at least until some optimist changed the paradigm. This belief persists largely because it works. I have seen pessimism and realism. My life's experiences teach me that optimism is better. It gets results; it is life's driving force. Try it some time.
Write Time, Write Space
Through every endeavor,
I carry my life.
A heavy subject matter,
but I don't mind.
I toil over these words, this lump of clay
molding it according to my vision.
Material is perpetually at hand.
I borrow tools to help me fashion it.
Imagination is never in short supply;
read and it will come.
When it rains it pours;
when its not pouring it puddles on the ground.
The hard part of being a writer
isn't finding inspiration.
It's catching a flood of words
with my butterfly net of a mind.
Viva Voce
Two weeks in,
I felt that tickle in the back of my throat.
My vocal cords, played with a feather.
The feeling said "you're losing your voice, stop now."
I ignored it.
I liked the gravelly quality it lent
(with a touch of chain-smoker).
"PLATOOON ATEEEN-HUT!
LEEEFt fHACE!
FOrWAArD...MAARRCH!"
Loud and thunderous
just like sar'ent said.
By weeks end
I whispered commands
with every fiber of my being.
Occult Blood
I feel your pain if no one else does.
I see the ghost trails of tears on your face,
born of the nightly séances for memories long gone.
I notice the parts of you that are missing,
lost in the wrecks of failed relationships.
I understand the outbursts --
post-traumatic stress...
I know it's not over just because the wound stopped weeping.
Not all misery is marked.
Doesn't really make sense, does it?
You could be dying and not one comprehends.
But they're all tortured, like you, victims of their own grief.
There's blood on the floor an inch thick; no one is aware.
I see hurting people.
