modern philosophy

I felt more like a poet at a time I knew nothing about dead poets than I do now after having dined and wined with the poets dead and alive.

I was once in love with you, of course I’ll never forget your birthday.

like watered down wine two sundays hence the echo of a modernist voice permutations and combinations but of the life victory ahead of strife

… and I’m embarrassed that grief is my only muse. It’s so frustrating that the only time I want to unleash the energy from the pit of my core is when I’m wronged, upset or angry. Why couldn’t I paint my masterpiece like I decided on a whim in response to the beauty that is my environment and why couldn’t I sing to my heart’s content a happy melody reminiscent of a past that’s gone by? Why does the sound of your voice still echo in my mind and why do I refuse to let you go even though all you did was slow me down? I hear the rattling of the spool of thread unwind an endless supply of oblivion and that consumes me whole for I am starved and my hunger has no other name.

In an alternate universe I’m besties with all of my exes exes and it’s a sisterhood of love and understanding. Of endless artistic collaboration.