and hand it to you
on a plate of curiosities.
I want to find the gravel
you brushed off your knees
three years ago and tell you
"These are seeds. We could
plant them together if you liked."
I want to fly
three hundred million metres per second
(that is, to be massless)
by exploiting the nature of
I want you to come with.
But my wings grow tired
and I can't
find fertile soil.
When I curl into an armchair
with my maths book and tea,
saying, "You should try it sometime,"
I don't expect you to listen.
In general, I don't particularly like depressing/sad poetry. Sadness, it seems to me, is not an end in itself (which is not to say it's without value). Poems can successfully take sadness and use it to another end (this reflects life, I think), but I would propose
wallowing ≠ art.This is rather wallow-y. However, I told myself very firmly when I started writing here that I was not to have expectations of art. So I argued with myself a bit:
This is rubbish.And then I posted it, against my [better/worse] judgment, together with the transcript as a disclaimer.
It isn't! It's true!
Well, it's certainly not factual and I don't see it uncovering the intrinsic nature of reality.
Didn't you like the part about maths being like flying even a little?
Okay, that wasn't too bad, but people won't get it.
How do you know what people will get? You're not people. And the second part is also good. The emotion is universal, but the context is specific.
Fine then. I'm not saying it's bad, but it's not good enough. You know that's not the whole story.
Yeah, it's not the whole story, but you haven't lived the whole story yet. How do you expect to write it?
You can't write it yet.
What if I guilt you about never writing blog posts?
It's been five days since the last post. Can't I put this up?
Oh come o-o-o-n.
Fine then. Make a fool of yourself. But put up a disclaimer saying I had nothing to do with it.