Thoughts on Doubt – Reasons for Lack

Granted, I’ll admit lately I’ve been wondering about the quality of my works, looking at my previous works and wondering if they weren’t childish in some way or shape, and debating if that doesn’t mean that anything I make will seem as such, as if written by a child in crayon attempting to pretend its really the black ink of a fine tipped pen. Doubt, I find, is such an insidious thing that comes from the most unlikely, and rather odd places. Comments from friends, meant to be friendly or somehow just, rather than doubting a word of advice can twist in the shadows of ones mind, causing that leviathan to rise up from inside one’s self, only to gnaw and feast on what little confidence one might have as it whispers spiteful phrases and points to all those things you’ve done wrong, all those things you’ve noticed yourself, and then points to those that say you’re good, and reminds you, that perhaps they simply feel obligated to say as much, to say such empty praise to a friend to make sure they don’t feel, wronged, in some way. The empty polite words offered in a misguided kindness rather than in bright, painful truth.

Perhaps this simply means I should write more, write of the slaying of my own demons, those twisted things that whisper of horror and violence, the same things that grant me inspiration but cause me to feel that my stories, my poems and words lack the emotion needed to carry a true tale along. You see, I’ve debated on trying to submit some of my shorter stories, or writing new ones for submission, to those publications that might find them as I do, but I can’t help but fear that shadowed leviathan that dwells within me, that voice that tells me to doubt for I’ve no reason to believe. However, again, I’ve no recourse but to believe, but to proceed and walk forward for going back is not an option and well, if one story fails for a time I suppose one might say that failure is limited, it is not the fault of the publisher not finding it worthy, it something flawed that simply must be polished more I suppose.

True failure is not found in the lack of success, but in the lack of any attempt to succeed at all, and in the face of that knowledge, I suppose doubt is nothing more than a shadowed whisper upon the wind, barely there and nothing to pay heed to past the acknowledgment of knowing ones flaws, and attempting as best one may to correct these.

Only I Remain

There is only I, for We have vacated and They have left, the husk that was known has long be gone to shadow and waste for Me has gone to take to task Who, those that dared destroy the Us by siding with Them. Shadows and tatters and little bright fetters, only I remain, to sing a tune and dance at noon while drinking the moon away.

I remain to sing and dance, sing this tune, and I can eye the world view, see the pollution of the that was once belonging to My or Me, either or don’t you see? I can see just fine, and yet at times I perhaps wonder if this poison has caused me to be blind, the images a perception of a hallucination of a fevered troubled mind, as I dance at noon and sing this tune, with only shadows and tatters and little bright fetters to call a place of home.

But Me was cruel and They were quite mad, Us was foul and Them never cared to say a kindness or offer a passing aid, perhaps perhaps I’ll sing them back one day, with this tune I forgot but remembered but only just made. Cobbled together of broken pieces of shadows, little tatters of light and bright shiny fetters I’ll simply dance and dance until all comes back, and They returns and Me is new, Us and Them no longer fight but become We once more, and perhaps with this I will be restored and eyes will see clear past the haze the shady dream scenes of troubled tortured days that pass at night in tattered painful frights. Yes, until then I remains, to sing this tune and dance at noon and drink the moon away.


Chorus of Echoes (Thoughts on Music)

The echoes reverberate all around, the chorus of music, that symphony of sound.

The choir does sing and the band does play and all we want to do is dance to the tune, to sing and sway.

The echoes reverberate all around, the chorus of music, that symphony of sound.

It worms its way inside my heart, inside my soul, breaking through that dark and sorrowful glow, until once more the smile within again does revive enough to show.

The smile does gleam as I sway to the sound, as I move to the chorus of echoes, that symphony that does cradle and surround.

Music is a relief, a release and way to meet, a way to meet my muse I love, that muse I adore.

Who once again rests upon my shoulder, whispering sweet inspiration into my ear one more.

Two Muses

I have muses, two, one is kind and bright but weary of life. The other is not born of me, not inside my mind, but within my soul, it is the drag of life, the scars that don’t show. The pain that burns, that sears my mind and poisons me so, it builds and builds until the dams must burst and wounds re-open unless I purge and let it go, fearful of not indulging that poison muse for fear of making the pain worse. A cruel task master, the whip wielded by life, it cracks and sears upon my soul and upon my mind until I take up the pen, the ink my own life blood and jot my pain, my agony upon paper with words and deed, letting the poison out, sewing the seeping wound once more with words for all to see.

I’m Sorry I Sorrow So

Tired of sorrow so I’m sorry I sorrow so, I never meant to worry you, climbing so high I never thought to fall at all.

I’m tired of sorrow so I’ll say one last time I’m sorry I worried you so and now its morning and your mourning for a friend that climbed too high and never thought to think of that fall at all.

Someone who needed to be above the clouds just to feel safe to breath, the press of bodies the swell of souls was to much to bare, to know.

So I climbed higher still and never thought to fall never thought to slip or tumble, or worry towards that at all.

So I’m tired of sorrow, I’m tired of mourning but I’m sorry I brought you to it. The last apology, the sorrow of a sorrowful poet, my tears have dried and my years have gone, and gone without any kind of love or hope, just mourning every morning, and sorrows every night, I couldn’t rest I couldn’t stop so I reached and reached towards those glorious heights but I never meant for you to hurt for my hurt, my inability to stand the press of people and the swell of souls, and that dreadful wound that was the only emotion I was ever to know.

Won’t you Light a Candle?

People make me sad, poison and bile seem to go with people hand in hand. They open their mouth and out the poison flows, the bile and vitriol all anyone seems to open and show. The lights are dimmed and the glory fades, the darkness comes now and thing have changed. No more monsters are there within the dark, what we fear are human faces, cold and cruel, harshly stark. So won’t you light a candle, please? For you and me and all to see, to banish the darkness, the poison at our heart, let in some light by which to see, we aren’t meant for hate but that’s what we’re heading to be.

For the Glory of My Muse

Out of hope, and out of time, this life of mine it’s empty, it’s bleak but I’ll find my way

My way to that glory at the mountain, that light found at morning’s peak

I’ll stop my mourning, I’ll stop my sorrow, I’m sorry I’m not sorry but it’s done now it’s over

I can’t do it anymore this mad dash for inspiration has left me empty, my muse is weary

The words I write do get so bleary, she’s tired of my dreary ways and she’s so thin

Her skin is wrinkled and she’s wasted away, she’s no longer young like she was that day

That day I decided that my path was right this path I write and I never knew it was wrong

How I mistreated, how I would write something only for it be trashed, deleted

I spurned my muse, and second guessed my nature, and now I’m in that shadowed valley

With fear looming over me, I take another step, upon those stairs leading to the peak

Outside of this darkness this mourning bleakness, wearied and depressed my muse is mute

But I know what to do, I know how to fix it, turn my back on the shadow and walk to the light once more.

I’ll find what I need to make my muse laugh and smile, and be like what we had before when she whispered those stories of old forgotten years into my head, my sleeping ear

The trip won’t be easy, she’s telling me not to go not to risk my gift that gift that I spurned by trying to this thing, this thing outside my nature

But you see I must, this mourning is tiring and sorrows are getting droll I see my muse getting old and we haven’t lived even a half-life as of yet this isn’t a choice but a task

So, out of hope and out of time I’ll find a way to carry this empty life of mine to that glory on the mountain, that light found at the top of morning’s peak

Perhaps once that light baths over us once again, once again to me my muse will speak, that’s all I want, all I need, to hear my muse again, to hear her speak