What the fuck, god?
We can wax poetic for decades, but the second we turn eyes to the axis upon which our emotions turn, our tongues betray us and fall down the towering staircase of babbling idiocy like meaty Slinkies.
Oh, how I would love to tell my muses how I feel.
Is it so impossible, to tell someone that they had a profound effect on your life?
Wouldn’t I like to hear such things? Wouldn’t I be touched?
Very much so – I carry those experiences close to my heart. Certainly, it is the smallest favor I can do to bestow a similar gift upon the people who have so affected me.
So then, why does the telling of such a feeling come out like “I want to roll up your dryer lint and use it as ben wa balls?”
We live in a world so devoid of poetry that poetry sounds alternatively trite and insincere, or obsessive and insane. Either way, it is a foreign tongue to the Everyman. And you cannot simplify what is closest to your heart, dirty it with slang and apathy, pass it off like everything else on the street. What have we, then, but writers who are ultimately distanced from everyone but other writers, but others familiar in their own tongue, themselves pressed by emotions and affairs of their own.
You, all the people I love, you will never know what I really meant to say.
And my writer friends, I feel your pain and share your heartache.