A Poetic Rant About Love & Creativity

It's a rant about love and creativity...and it rhymes...sometimes.

So, I've had a bit of writer's block

I know, such a shock

you see, I've come to realize 

that at least for me, I seem to be

only able to create, if I'm full of hate

or love, depression, indigestion, 

or a combination of the above

because the truth is,

I wear cynicism like a glove

tailor made.

You've heard me talk about my mother

and ex-girlfriends

let's be real...we'll call them ex-sins

or maybe mistakes

because let's make no mistake

the only debate I ever lose...

is one with a woman.

And of course, the one I have with myself

when I look at my emotional health

and my startlingly skim monetary wealth

because she spent all my money

and I keep trying to convince,

without a cringe or a wince,

that I can still call you honey...and not a b***h

which, if I'm gonna be honest

seem to be the type of woman I most attract

I'm like an all-star athlete, 

with wings on my feet, running around a circular track

never looking back, and never seeing that I'm just going around

and around and around and around

never gaining ground

because even when you're in first place with a woman

you're still trying to keep up.

But, let's back up for just a second

and go back to the beginning

what have I talked about?

sinning, being with women, never winning

oh yeah, I remember...

writer's block

writer's block, writer's block...

Do you know how woman are always saying

how men are always playing

and they only think with their c**k?

Sorry, I went back to that again

but now I'm on a soap box.

Let me explain.

I'm divorced.

Now of course, before the divorce

there were shouts that left me hoarse

wounds that left me coarse

but nobody ever forced me to fall head over heels.

But no one told me that love sucks and this is how it feels

or that women would be my greatest flaw.

Now, don't get me wrong,

I don't hate women at all.

My problem is that I love them

and that I care too much.

That the second I feel loved, I get in a rush

give me a wink, or kiss

and it'll be hard to miss how much I blush.

Now, some of you are gonna say

"Chance, you were played

that wasn't real love,"

Tell that to the breakfast in bed

the bouquets, the movies,

dates, plays, and the morning head

No, the love was real

it was just unrequited

I was ready for this, 

she just wasn't with it.

Because I love the world.

I love the haters, the players,

and every single lying girl

who has left me waiting

hating who I am, what I look like

how I dress

I love every person I've tried to impress

and who didn't give me another look.

I love the s**t-talkers, the street-walkers,

the internet stalkers, 

and even the fans of those Twilight books.

I love the crooks, and the thieves

the cheats, and the girl who left me

to wake up alone on the sheets.

Okay, I'll stop, I'm not here to preach.

I'm here to talk about writing.

Trying to find inspiration, 

even when inspiration's hiding.

I'm trying my best to get off my chest

what's behind my writing process

okay...it goes something like this

I sit down alone, at home

smoke a cigarette, maybe something greener

I stare at my paper, until I'm giving it the middle finger

waiting for the bringer of inspiration

here and there out of desperation

I'll listen to some music

hoping that through it

I'll find some sort of clarity,

but it doesn't matter how hard I beg

the muse doesn't run a charity.

So, I give up and I go to a bar

hopefully one where I don't have to travel far

because I'm an artist, I'm broke, 

and I don't have a car.

But here's the problem with bars

there are women there,

smiling like vicious predators in their chairs.

And inevitably when I walk in

it's like every time, I can feel the heads spin

as every last evil, single (or maybe not) girl

does a little twirl, and finds their prey.

It's like there's some sort of neon sign

floating up, somewhere behind,

with bulbs and lights and flashing little fireworks

proclaiming to the world in bright red just above my head

SUCKER!

And they pucker up their lips, they sway their hips,

and they listen to me talk about my passion,

about my love for life, and poetry, and art

for music both mainstream and off the charts

and they smile.

God, am I weak for a good smile.

And for a while, it seems like it's real.

Until I discover, this beautiful lover

was here to lie and cheat and steal.

Sorry...how did I get back on this spiel?

For real, it's like the only time I can write

is when I'm in love, or when I'm heartbroken

that the only time I have anything worth being spoken

is when I feel like I'd rather be crying.

Because any other time, if I don't feel like I'm dying

there's hardly any point in trying.

No, that's a lie.

The truth is, I think I have a problem

I only dedicate myself to sinking ships.

I only would have rode the Titanic

if I'd known it was going down.

Because there's a part of me that thinks

only if my life sinks, 

and if I'm struggling not to drown

will I ever have anything worth saying.

But it's more than that.

I've been hurt and left shattered.

And I walk around like it doesn't matter

and I don't care.

So sometimes, when I go the bar

and I pick a chair

I'll see the perfect girl, maybe reading a book,

and I'll look, and I'll stare...

but I'll never say what I want to say.

We may even become friends, and I may see her every day

and every one of those days I'll fall in love more.

I'll watch as she goes from taken, to single, to not single anymore,

and I'll never make an attempt.

I know, it probably doesn't make sense.

And the truth is...

...I'm still the same.

Yes, this wasn't some sort of hypothetical game

I go through this even today, here and now.

and somehow, I still feel like it'll never change.

So, I'll keep going through doomed relationships

making a port from my own doomed station of ships

destined to sink beneath the sea,

while I'm shoveling water,

so that when and if I make it to shore

I'll have more and more to write about.

Because I'm replacing the love I want with writing.

And she's falling in love with someone else,

while inside I'm still desperately fighting

with my low self-esteem. 

So for now, girls like her

will stay on the page, and in my dreams. 

Back to what it's like, trying to write.

I said earlier, that I love the world.

That I love all the negative people

who have made me the way I am.

Because the truth is...love never fades.

It never truly, 100% goes away,

it just gets hidden beneath the shade

of all the built up hate.

And the truth is...they've added to my art.

And my hope is, 

that through the broken pieces of my heart 

one day I'll be able to arrange the pieces

in just the perfect order

in the form of a poem or story.

Just the one needed for that perfect girl

to finally see this broken boy.

Reviews

[MsOdie]

Really love this....a break up or new love usually shakes my writer's block :p

[Lavon Forkeeps]

I wonder if there is a certain way that a woman should interpret this. Either way, I'm happy. From where you stand, I'm your emotional, love, hate, cynical, feel-it-all equal. I ask myself the same questions, bide myself the same shame. I am on your playing field and neither of us know what sport we're supposed to participate in. Assuming that that made any sense to you - This is really good. This is good, and you remind me of myself, when I'm mad that I can't just put the words down how, where, when I want them down. That all of these words swirl and twirl and dance inside my head but outside, seem useless, because they don't feel the same anymore. They don't work. And sometimes, when words don't work, people think you can't write, you can't rhyme, that makes no sense, what is she even talking about? Anyways.
"I wear cynicism like a glove
tailor made."
You've made my day better.
And I will be reading more of your work.

[MachinaWriter]

Sorry for the really late response. Life has been hectic (when is it not?) so I haven't been on here in a while. This poem is probably one of the messiest pieces I have, so it fits how my mind feels most of the time. I tie so much of my identity and who I am into my writing that it makes me question everything I do. It can be a rather poisonous way of thinking. Anyways, I'm glad you left a comment. It means a lot when I get on here and see that I'm a little less alone that I thought I was before that.

[Sirius King]

Loved it man!

Your voice is really missed on his site, welcome back!

I'm still a fan.

BTW: I've been having my own writer's block issues, so your not alone man, keep them coming!