.
Pope’s Lock
.
For a small lock of hair
Not brilliant, not shiny,
Not precious, but rusty,
Lost to the lady fair
.
They fought so hard and true
Batteling fro and to
Fists banging, swords clashing,
Cries and shouts resounding
.
The furniture was trashed
Walked upon, thrown around,
Blood was shed, flesh wounded
.
As, all around, fighted,
All for honor of fair
A lady’s lock of hair.
Love, mom.
.
Mother died this morning.
I never did love her very much. I’ve always preferred father to her. I don’t really know why though.
They say she fell down the stairs, broke her neck on the wooden floor.
She didn’t love me either, always telling me to go play elsewhere or to leave her alone because she was too busy to deal with me.
Her face was stiff but calm when I saw her, there was a pallor to her skin that suited her well.
Strangely I’ve never resented her for not paying attention to me, I just stopped caring.
They told me she had something like stroke and lost her balance on the first step. A silly accident.
She never tried to improve our relationship either, she completely let go of our ties.
Apparently they found a few letters she had written that were addressed to me in her drawers. They said they’ll send them over soon.
I don’t think I’ll go to her funeral. I only went to dad’s because she wasn’t there
I’ve never thought the police to be very efficient, this time isn’t an exception to that rule.
I would’ve like to not be noticed if possible, to not even know. But apparently it’s the procedure.
They didn’t think to check if slipping and falling like that was possible.
I’ll have to throw my gloves away. I like them though. Shame…
This morning, mother died.
Revel in my talent.
*
This is just a poem made out of random words,
It has not a meaning nor any real purpose,
But notice how it works despite being senseless,
‘Tis the most majestic of all existing turds.
.
Without any real thought and so lacking in depth,
Without any grammar or respect for language,
Oh, only he who writes, decides what he doeth,
And only he can choose what words go on his page.
.
Writing some poetry isn’t complicated,
Just find a good rhythm and then make the words rhyme,
Whatever the order, it will work out. Sometime.
.
You will get there whether or not you’re talented,
Just think of a colour, add a deep emotion,
And all that’s left to do is a tree to mention.
Oh but do try to make it readable though.
And yeah, I did just write that…
They walk the walk and talk the talk
Walking the plains of desert lands
Roaming the dark and grey expanse
They talk the talk and walk the walk
.
Ever wandering in circles
Again and again, round and round
Oh, following an endless trail
Those three strange men in the desert.
.
Footsteps in sand, shadows in dust
They dream greatness but one day must,
For time away, old age come, rust.
.
Their journey is long, dangerous
But time is rare, even precious
And they cannot stray from their course.
In these locks
.
Not before did I understand,
In all those songs and all my reads,
The true value of these long strands,
The real beauty of those thin threads.
.
Her hair was long and cascading
Of warm bronze colour, calm beauty,
Oh, all these years – how many? –
Took it to grow to this dreaming?
.
If I could touch, if I could feel,
If in these soft locks I could pass
My fingers and, oh so gently…
If, just for a second, I dared…
Deep in the ocean, at the bottom of the sea,
Where no man’s ever walked and it’s too dark to see
Lives an ancient being of colors never seen
Swimming in ocean deeps which we can only ween.
I feel crazy. I’m excited, elated, unable to rest, focus nor calm down. Ideas, so many ideas. Or, more seriously, flashes, bribes, pieces of ideas, coming, going, dancing all around me, toying with me, my emotions and my memory. I have beginnings, ends and a thousand romances in between my fingers but none of them can I write down because of this unstable state of mind. Jumping from Ore to Alexandre then to the one with the magic ink writer back to the Halfling and so on and so forth. every moment of every second! I want to make something out of this, out of these ideas. Something good, something great, I want to write, to tell my stories, but I can’t… not until I settle down and make a choice, decide, choose, set the course and follow a single path. So many possibilities. Exhilerating, annoying, awesome feeling but frustrating. With ifs I could rebuild the world from scratch. But that’s not what I wanna do, I want to build my world from scratch. I want to, I need to, I have to, I will. But how? When? Soon. Perhaps. I hope. I can’t decide. I can’t write if I can’t decide. I have to write. Damn it!
So this is something that I wrote an evening, a few days ago, as I was trying to write something but couldn’t manage for my life to write down anything I had in mind. I just went with the feeling and let the pen do what it had to, I let my hand guide itself and came up with this rant. I don’t know why but tonight a song reminded me of this rant and the feeling I had in my heart while I was writing it. I have such amazing stories to write, such great ideas I don’t manage to make the most of… It’s extremely frustrating! You can’t even imagine! Or perhaps you can, I don’t know… But I the worst is that I realized that this doesn’t only apply to my writing, it also happens in the rest of my life too!I’m not someone who can manage to get motivated without any reason or to be serious and dedicated in doing things.
‘I have beginnings, ends and a thousand romances in between my fingers but none of them can I write…’
Especially my studies and finding a job.I try but not enough and, as soon as it gets hard or complicated I avoid it as best I can. Unconsciously or consciously I don’t know but it does happen. And in writing it happens too, I try but when I struggle I move on to something else and don’t try hard enough… It’s a big problem. I realize that but getting over it is extremely hard. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it, at least not easily or very quickly, but I am working on it. I will be trying harder, even my hardest, to work on my writings because it’s one of the only things I really feel motivated for! Also I will try to apply some of that motivation to my studies, I like what I’m doing this year, I can’t screw things up, I have to suck it up and just do it.
If I try hard enough then, one day, perhaps…
Anyway, I’m not here to rant, just to try to explain what motivated me to write this and what I feel. I don’t know why, I just had to do it… I think that this song is not for nothing in this feeling : “J’essaye, j’essaye” from the Casseurs Flowters, a french singer (or band I don’t really know), which I just discovered and fell in love with. I’m not usually a fan of the genre of music they make but this time I seem to really be growing fond of it. Both the melody and the lyrics stir something inside me in a way that I don’t really understand but that I can feel deeply. Especially during the parts where the old woman sings. I can’t explain it, I can just feel it. It’s a bit like when I read poems that, without knowing, I end up loving for reasons unknown to me. And I wanted to share it a bit with you, somehow hoping you could get what I feel or at least what I mean or try to mean…
Anyways, that’s all for tonight, thank you all and enjoy. :)
♪ J’essaye, j’essaye de faire de mon mieux et je m’ennuie quand tout devient sérieux. ♫
(I don’t know if you’ll be able to understand the lyrics but both the meaning and the melody are worth listening to, at least they really get to me.)
Oh, and just before I go : no Echoes of Power tonight, I have literally no idea about how I’m going to write the next part which is very important and is going to (hopefully) start the really interesting part of the story (I also have very little motivation, which really doesn’t help). So yeah, no update on that side today, hopefully tomorrow I’ll have figured out how I want to write this and with great luck you might even get two parts instead of one. Who knows… In the mean time, have a great evening and see you later.
*
This story took place, be told my deary,
By a night like this, cold and dreary.
Came a strange fellow, old and weary,
On a steed of stone, mold mystery,
He offered riches, golden jewelry,
To those who would dare, bold and fiery,
Bear an ancient curse, ten fold eery,
Then, vanishing in the wold, leery.
You
You. So bright and breathtaking, so beautiful and shimmering.
The sun of my nights, the moon of my days.
The one which I seek, the one I want to please.
Oh so happy am I with you, nothing else I desire.
Your bright warm smile and shining eyes,
Your soft hair of flowers, a musk to remember,
Frames the face of an angel from heaven come
And pushes away the nightmares that, from hell, rose.
Whatever I do, whatever I say, wherever I go
No matter what may come towards my way
Nothing can drive away the honey in my heart
My body, my mind, my soul are forever yours.
You are perfect, you are flawed, you are strong and yet fragile
You are near, you are far, you are here, you are not
You make may heart beat away all the seconds of my life
You make me love you always more, passion burning to my core.
And you make me want to drop it all, to love and fly away,
And… you… And you… I…
Morte.
*
Running and living,
Stopping and dying,
There is no fighting.
.
No one trenscends
We can only flee,
Run far away,
As far as possible.
.
No one ascends
No matter how fast,
Run far away,
He* always catches up.
.
An iron grip,
Never letting go,
Fingers so cold
It rips even your soul.
.
Faster, farther,
It’s the only way
Longer, harder,
To live. Running always.
.
Running and living,
Stopping and dying,
There is no fighting.
Yup. A jolly story is it not?
*Of course. Who doesn’t know Death is a he?
Tales of Ore 