See You Next Tuesday

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See You Next Tuesday 

Never-mind untruths meaning why

Actuality a passive aggressive error

Spit upon your venomous sly

Cult of the abhorrent phrenic wearer

Reaking of uneducated contempt

Willingly forgotten and buried en-mass

Bad behavior you aren’t exempt

Carnivorous bark justified lack of class

Unrepentant as coffin bearer

Bride to the death throws

Always siding with internal terror

Backhanded lamb skinned clothes

Image-less facade will fade and crack

Cackling before compassionless mask

Aberrated head placed upon the rack

Stolen lips and forged task

Guilt trips heavily taxed

Resent razor blade tongue

Heart fence wrapped and waxed

The dance is done we’re stung

The song, the verse, the key

Gemini spilled lies granted

I am free – but you will never be

Your place with me transplanted

(C) T. Georgitsis 2016

Quotes on Poetry

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My favorite quotes on poetry by a poet and teacher:

“you enjoy language without knowing what it means”

“poetry has to resist finite meaning”

“poetry has to be a little obscene and honest”

“I want to be bewitched when I read poetry”

– Dr Ali Alizadeh, 2016

 

Weirdo Writer

I’ve been called a weirdo a lot during my life because I have a twisted sense of humor, have eclectic tastes and don’t fall in line with what is considered “normal” by societal standards.

When people say this to me its not meant as a compliment but I take it as one because truth be told, I’d rather be a weirdo than a dullard.

Think about and consider who tends to do extraordinary things in this world, whether they are known to you or not – people who are considered normal or those who are labelled weirdos?

Lastly, like someone I respect who teaches children says to their students “it would be boring if we were all the same”.

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What Inspires Me: So You Want To Be A Writer – Poem by Charles Bukowski

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if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

What Inspires Me: Alone by Poe

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Shared the following poem by Poe with a fellow creative and it touched her so much it brought tears to her eyes.

I wanted to share with her how succinctly Poe described feeling detached and separate from the world.

Its always been a favorite of mine as Poe was my first literary love and the first writer I became obsessed with.  He wooed me with his words of  romantic melancholy and showed me that the written word could evoke multitudes of emotions.

“Alone”

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
By Edgar Allan Poe