I feel that in my poetry lies insolence, disquiet, dreams and desires. It is not art. It mimics it, poorly I must say but that is the extent of my miserable attempts at 'craft'.
It is all hogwash. Yearnings of an asinine fool (forgive my redundancy) to be wise and comely. Sometimes it even verges on- I dare not type it out because then it will all be true.
I fear change but I want perfection, which is idiotic (perfectly expected of one such as me). Most of all I think I'm just a damned lazy bum.
It all comes back to my anti-social nature I think. It brings me conflicts that deeply stirs me. Is it possible to go on a quest for knowledge, art, love or beauty without having to move oneself to align with the rest of the world?
All this profundity of thought makes me suspicious of my own mind. Of my own intent. To be capable of pure sincerity surely one must cleanse oneself of one's own vices? Rid oneself off one's own trivial knowledge of the superficial?
But I have to start somewhere don't I?
Spirituality is something I find myself again and again attracted to yet simultaneously repulsed from. All is my fault of course. The One does not play tricks on His subjects.
Hence, I go back to what comforts me most in this prison my own mind construct around myself; Books. May guidance come to me when I seek it as often as when I need it.
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