Recently, my 11 year old son explained to me how he remembers things: he keeps "file cabinets" in his head, labeled under various events or things, and visits those file cabinets whenever he needs to. Besides constantly amazing me, he had a point. Our memories, special events, education, life events and whatever else is important is neatly filed away in the file cabinets of our complicated brains to reference anytime we need to. Some of us forget where we kept shit and it takes years to find it, but it never goes away, it's always there. Waiting.
I am repetitive by nature, and much to my dismay and others around me, my memory has only gotten worse over the years, mostly due to chemical influence. So if I ever tell you a story for the billionth time, please have patience. I promise you'll still love me. Maybe. But the whole file cabinet theory reminded me of the years I suppressed my genetically-given "gifts" (my Mom would probably say God-given, and that's cool, but I prefer to think of it as the trickle-down DNA, talent-by-injection method) and had to dig pretty deep to find out what they were and rediscover the true me. Though my self-consciousness does not usually allow me to say "gifts" or "talents"; deeply woven negativity can take a lifetime to break. I prefer to see them as my unique way of expressing the goop that takes up my big brain. Big brain as in All The Crap Up There, not big brain as in highly intelligent. I'm not a dumbass, but I'm no genius either. I just need outlets to manage the goop, that's all.
So, I've probably said this before, but creative inspiration for me usually happens when I'm about to go to sleep. It's annoying as hell but I figure it's payback for suppressing it chemically for so long. Karma is a bitch my friends, and the cosmic irony is just too hilarious to stay annoyed. At least I get the inspiration; if not, I wouldn't be sitting here or doing everything else that I do as an "artist". Anyhoo, this brings me to my next sub-topic, poetry. Most who know me have heard me say, probably a dozen or more times (repetitive, remember?), how I pretty much loathe poetry. Save for the poetry of songs and Edgar Allan Poe (duh, of course), it just isn't my cup of tea. However, about 2 years ago, I starting getting what I call creative "flashes" of poetry in my mind that just ate at me until I have to get it down on paper, or here, as it may be. Why? I have no clue. But when something picks at my brain and I can't sleep, I have to release it, whether it's poetry, just a regular blog, or my art. I don't know if it's good, or even somewhat decent, I just get it out. The chips just fall where they may. I release it to the world, and then you can be the judge. But more importantly, I release it from one of my dusty file cabinets, usually labeled either "suffering" or "randomness". So without further ado, here is the latest goop that oozed from my brain last night at midnight. It is untitled. Enjoy...or not.
A river of pain runs through these holes
In my heart and my soul -
Running crimson down blackened stones,
Staining trails of tortured time; a well-worn path
To the prison in my mind.
I am only a number here;
Scarlet-lettered skin scorched by peers.
The ashes of my dreams scattered -
Smeared as if they didn't matter.
What they didn't ask or want to know
Is my beauty as a whole.
But a blind eye will crucify;
Left alone in Hell to remain
Until all my redemption drains
Through these holes of pain.
AJW 11/6/11
