Few and Far between

I have been writing. Just not here. There's something about writing in my journal that just feels more true. It's as though when I open up my moleskin to a blank new page I feel connected with Hemingway and other great writers in a way that I just don't feel when typing on the computer. Granted right now I'm reading Dharma Bums for the first time and there is something about typing that makes me feel connected to Kerouac. (even if he had a typewriter, not a computer) There is a free flow to Dharma Bums which is similar to my stream of conscious writing on the computer. A disjointed, poetic drunkenness that is strong and beautiful. Sometimes I wonder what Kerouac would think of our modern interpretations of his works. If he would tell me nicely that I am an idiot (which I doubt since at the beginning of Dharma Bums he's all about kindness) or if he would just smile at my naivete and say nothing, or if he would think I actually got it on some level.
Point being (Dad) I have been writing. I suppose it doesn't do any good to keep it wrapped up in my journal. If you write to change the world you have to risk exposure and failure, something I'm constantly fearful of.

Silver webs shiver in golden shadows,
The fading glory of another day.
Naked bones stretch to the sky
Hungry, yearning to be made new.

The broken bark sticks hard in my back,
A harsh reminder of reality
As the golden orb slowly sinks
the horizon alters its hue

A crisp clear blue, burned off haze,
unhindered by chasing clouds.
I drink deep the cool fall air
sweetened by an early moon

Peace comes easily in Autumn.


Some days I think I'm a terrible poet. probably because I don't try terribly hard to understand all that rhyme and meter and scanning stuff Dr. Potter tries so desperately to teach me. I think I'm just more of a free verse poet, or as I like to say, a lazy poet. But sometimes, I write something that I think just brushes the surface of something beautiful and I'm almost proud. Proud enough at least to expose myself to the world for its caprice.
I will try to write here more often. until then.