let's elaborate on how i feel about minute elaboration

It’s funny how true certain statements you make actually are; for example when I previously mentioned that I tend to interject other thoughts in order to refrain from losing them from my memory and consequently I often forget the original train of thought I had started. Well, seemingly this will always be true as in the second paragraph of my last entry it happened. I had mentioned the irony of how few read my writing and meant to also discuss the flip side of those who do but became fixed on a new thought. So as a continuation of the paragraph that was intended to be longer than 3 sentences (excluding the massive sub-thought in the middle), I shall pick up with where I left off—not that you care or can do anything about it.

Not to create a negative connotation of myself, there are people who do read my work and comment. Those who read and do not leave any indication of having read it cannot be included since I am neither a mind reader nor cyber geek who can track IP addresses and pinpoint who viewed what and when in relation to my Facebook¹. So, I continue, yet again, with the first reflection. Those who comment comment insufficiently. Feedback is exactly just; I don’t want or even care to know your opinion of my work. Nonetheless, that is also completely untrue. A remark that says ‘wow, that’s deep’ or ‘I really like this one’ with no elaboration or explanation of those opinions holds little value in my eyes. But likewise comments do support my poetic intent—that is, to assume an enlightened and profoundly methodical insight on personal attitudes. Though it never works so perfectly, it usually winds up as a fabrication of collective ideas that give the impression of being philosophical by its unclear analogies and heightened language. I know how a poem should look and sound and that is why I can write them. I can twist the simplest of feelings into complex stanzas that underneath are shallow, hollow suggestions of thought. They say we are our best critiques. Well I don’t refute that; conversely, I wish to protect my authenticity as a writer despite my declaration of falsities, because in my fabrication of inflated imagery there lies intent, meaning, and execution of style. So if those don’t constitute enough as poetry, then your perception is skewed. The imaginary ideas which I present² are totally real and felt/thought at the time being written or else they would cease to exist in words [on paper] (electronic paper). Essentially, I needn’t explain myself to you any further. Quite frankly, having done so much thus far makes me feel like id been trying to lecture a bunch of five year old children, who lack the attention span or intellect to comprehend no matter how many times I repeat myself.

My strongest desire (in a current sense) is to be critiqued and analyzed, probed and experimented upon, identified and destroyed of credibility and the unjustly self acquired placement upon a pedestal. That is what I truly hope for when I write, not responses like “I really enjoy your work”, which means “I like it or at least say I do because I’m somehow jealous that you can create such great writing and I can barely rhyme but I really don’t understand it at all”. I merely, simply request for an equal to study me (straightforwardly my poetry but more so a deep hope for actually analyzing me as a person). What would truly be great is if someone was far beyond that of adroit observations and ultimately understood me or provided some aspect that I have not been able to consider when I ponder the question of my self-identity. But I will just as soon settle for some attempt at critique and feedback.

¹ I want to take this footnote to stress what a big waste of time Facebook truly is. I suppose I am just not with it when it comes to social networking or any sense of social up-keeping for that matter. Possibly my dislike for the site has to do with my lack of need for it. I have a few close friends and beyond that there are friendly associations [that rarely go further than outside of school] and then acquaintances. So given those social levels, it seems odd and unnecessary to “friend” those people who I won’t talk to anyways and neither would they consider the same. Additionally, there is so much needlessness on Facebook. Aside from photo sharing and info relaying between groups or clubs, I don’t need or care to know about your personal life, or that the new Facebook layout sucks, or even some of the mindless postings people have.

² Read “PRE-sent” not “pres-ENT”. Necessary to point out because it correlates perfectly to one of my pet peeves—when people pronounce words wrong, mainly when they enunciate the other word in the heteronym set. One particular example that sticks out is someone who says “pro-CESS” when referring to someone “PRO-cess”[ing] someplace.

my attempt at a stream of consciousness

I don’t know how to write about myself and my experiences, only those things which I pretend to feel. Poetry, as one may call it—though I feel it is justifiably an overstatement in the least—seems to be that such outlet. It has become for me a safety net of undisclosed feelings overtly expressed for the world to read and consequently acknowledge that there lies some deeper meaning or torment within. I write to pose as a writer. a poem becomes a new identity of self evaluation and unleashed emotions that spurt forth the words that so cleverly disguise that which I feel, wish I felt, and write about—as if the words and, more so, myself, were being psychoanalyzed by experts whose sole desire was to help solve the mystery that is Shaun Henry—those things which I neither feel nor of which I truly have an authoritative stance to say I feel. So, in bare essence, I write in hopes that one (someone, in fact anyone) may read and assume [a fairly well educated] opinion based on the false impressions that I offer like free samples in a supermarket. However, ironically, hardly anyone ever explores my works and so my attempts at recreating my identity by altogether presenting a different façade fail miserably with the words that form them. In a roundabout way, I have said nothing pertinent. My intent [here in this paragraph] was to describe that what I write is not untruth but a preconceived perversion of ideas and thoughts constructed into a structure of deeper meaning and mysticism achieved by ambiguous words, implicational phrases, and clichéd statements that serve no purpose other than to give air to such intellectual reactions by the reader. That is not to say that I do not hold any or all of the emotions and feelings when I write. I just write so to assume a more developed influence on the subject matter and to vaguely, yet vividly detail the narration in my writing. So no, I would not consider my works (and I say works loosely because otherwise I would leave impressions that what I write is notable in an academically superior sense) poetry. Maybe they could be classified as poems in the least sense, as they are poems by the arbitrary definition of a poem, but not poetry. The inspiration, cultivation and creation of each of my writings are poetry in itself. The craftsmanship in its laughably paradoxical exhibition is poetry. The message is merely nonexistent if not totally feigned, over exaggerated, and partially presented, but those are the things for which I am driven to write. I enjoy the painstaking effort at fully forming an idea or emotion into an executable stream of phrases and coherent logic that all over has a “poetic” shape and reasonable cohesion.

The pitiful--inthaticanonlyhopepitywouldbethecommonfeelinghere--thing is that my writings are overlooked and generally unread, granted they are only posted on (1) my “blog¹” and (2) on Facebook². I know not the reasoning behind this as trying to analyze reasons for individual discretion would be quite lengthy. I could do it and noticing (the noticing being only done be me as I’m writing because quite frankly for someone to pick up on this point—that I interrupted midthought³—would be too high of an expectation. However, I am not condescending or implying that to pick up on such a thought is impossible, merely unlikely, especially considering I hardly understand my thought process without trying to pinpoint its schematics in a disorganized paragraph such as this one becauseitisdifficulttomap without using a flowchart of some sort—and I am not doing so, evident if you regard the fact that I am writing a narrative of sorts. Apologies for the overall chaos of this writing style. I will eventually find my rhythm and perfect a more followable style. Nonetheless, in my defense, I am writing my thoughts and it seems rational to write them as they are being thought. And now back to the other half of the sentence that I started many lines ago…) how I haven’t dismissed thought, clear in that I felt it important enough to include (this last part inserted for those who hadn’t noticed what I had but now can understand what I thought^4,5); maybe in the next installment of “purging my vaulted psyche” will I discuss my beliefs as to why certain people make certain choices concerning whether to read a note I post of Facebook or not.

¹ I put “blog” in quotation marks, as such, because I personally believe that it does not fulfill the criteria of my envisioning of the definition of a blog. Though, it serves the purpose of a blog less the personal stories and unnecessarily long critiques of trivial culture references. If not semi obvious that was partially how I perceive how the content of blogs constitutes. Additionally, my blog is bland and depraved of nothing but my poetic writings (presently speaking, as this entire synopsis of the ONLT THING I COULD THINK OF TO WRITE ABOUT, when I actually wanted to write about my life buteverthingelseistartedtotypeimmediatelysucked, is going to be posted—and probably is—if this is being read, for the first time, other than by myself as I type, by someone).

² Second [implied but still very needed to be stated], I note that I felt an unavoidable urge to capitalize the ‘f’ in Facebook—an urge I imagine most other order compulsive users, who aren’t also some of the idiots I have seen Facebook (now a verb), also are stricken by.

³ I tend to do that—interject other thoughts mid-thought—very frequently, even in regular conversation. Otherwise, and I have proven it to myself, I will forget the second thought that fit perfectly, in some instances, in the middle of the first conversation. Likewise, in my attempts at trying to refrain from forgetting my additional inputs, I forget the original topic of conversation. In short, asides are distracting but I do them anyway.

⁴ I hope.

⁵ Sometimes I lose myself as well and it is just best to move on. Nothing you have read is that important and worth rereading just to try and understand. Plus, it would be easier to ask me what I meant; me being a terrible teacher, you would wind up further confused and more pissed.

Dormant Revival

the teardrops descend splashing around down the well of delusion
once amiss, with a steady grasp on a false reality, now crumbling with
    uncertainty
my mind spirals afar, no origin or concept of truth
for what one now knows is for but only an idea on which
    i built my castles
--they too melt in the summer sun. and wash away, with my senses.

why the grass grows so tall only to wilt over its premature advances and
dry up, like emotions lost in the vacuum that is my being, remains
    the question of the age
to drudge on may be understating but blithe before bliss tenders the soul
along a weary path.

i've strayed; astray, no more. but recollection of the dusts
of past ideals proves less like a jigsaw and near that of a sequential generator.

for not being the craftsman who shapes from such plans, causes chaos for me
    as i attempt a dormant revival.
never have the issues been so problematic, but so has been
    the lack of solutions
and hours engulfed by pondering scenarios. forsaken by my own self
    loathing
to refresh and restart the dreary cycle yet again.
'til the day arrives when circumvention
    by flushing such poison thoughts
is no longer necessary.

17

her mouth's a genocide and I’m the foolishly sympathetic sea stacks

that stand there-- immobile-- taking each beating

from the surf, the waves that crash on my dignity,

breaking incessantly. pounding--the only metronome in this rythym-less nightmare

from which I wake alerted by fear, by apathy in a cold sweat,

by the vexatious alarm ringing in my head but not in reality

brain freezes and fatty ice cream can’t cure this affliction

of paranoia and impossible fantasies spliced into tonight’s special

feature film. in the next hour, tune in to the exploitation

of the sparse feelings that remain. too late, power failure,

blackout in a suburban neighborhood, of unacquainted co-inhabitants

living micro-existences, subdivided by all nuances by which one ought
not to prejudice

but hesitations lapse, the grid reboots and the cycle resumes

from square one

focused under overheated incandescent bulbs. beneath a lens and cover slip

but far from observation. neglected, consciously overlooked

a social experiment without intent. just incubated to near eruption

build ups of pressure, internally, externally--accidentally.

the forces of contemporary society. the oceans that dictate

modern survival. the seas the test and manipulate

to the extent of drowning victims drowning in self anguish

mellow, hollow and still un-phased

none to act out the mind's meager plays

dramas without substance, pitifully toyed with by a director

who himself lacks the vision. the mental performances repeat,

common in theme. a complete [and totally expected] about-face of desire

from solidity and steady emotion to relentless urges for superficiality

but yet again the heart pulsates on a different line

and so, like described, spotlight thievery--if only another felt the same

the similar want to spontaneity and the intangible.

Catharsis

Eons of prosperity—adventures mutually shared

Manhunt in the park, sight seeing and subdued parties

More remembrance than can be recounted

And count we did, you did,—Once.

The memories stay ingrained, the desire to hold on faded

Down the drain with last night’s spaghetti water

Be they determined by quality? Or quantity?

            I’ve neither

Personas of new awakening—Disintegrating.

category: Dementia  or  Mainstream Fever

friends change, while I remain, the same

still sane. One’d hope

for return to norm, revival of the prime

            perhaps the gilded collection be polished?

one-89, 2sixty-five, 411, 6thirty7  

blips

on an [anti-] social network

Interconnections of trivial vanity

Abroad for Lost Ties to mull in pity

over ‘pertinent’ stills of reality

that each one discriminated for this sole

purpose.

they Promised loyalty—loads of twisted words

            ‘twas hypnotized

Disposed as a pariah

Numbness always out of reach

Left to fend ‘gainst Loneliness the venomous disease.

Where I’ve lost my vision, you’ve calloused opinions

Pulsate in between depressive states

            Because of the lack in consistency

Can all be forgotten, or just overwritten

Now I’m no better. Stopped caring

            As they have

No longer checking up

Just catching up—on the sleep I don’t need

Catalogs of time’s best days engulfed in flames

Affinities re-routed and Defunct

Where, or rather why, has it all gone…

Last claim, it’s a shame.

Your fault. For forsaking such wonders

If only the roots were stronger against the storms

which seem to overtake the greatest.