*~BlOgGiN' wHiTe TrAsH~*

I have a thousand subjects/experiences/opinions/thoughts I’m eager to put down here, which is why I created this blog anyway, but there’s so much I want to start with that the words get piled on top of each other again and again, burying my once simple, planned, brief subject of the moment.  So I sit here most nights trying to force my head clear and shake down the mess of wordy words into a manageable, neat blog post.  But now here I sit just blogging about the problem of…. blogging.

Maybe I should start with disclaimers.

I am not looking for any kind of sympathy.  I’m putting all this down and together here for pretty much the same reason as anyone else does; I want to believe I am being ‘heard’.  I want to feel a part of something and leave my little mark of my collection of wordy words.

I also feel the need to leave it said and done for something inside myself. Some things need to be said, told, set free and this is for now, the only way I can ’safely’ do that (without hurting anyone’s feelings, opening worm cans, hanging out dirty laundry, etc).

I’m not looking for praise, fame, advice, criticism, debate or much conversation at all.  I’m rather anti-social in these later days.  It’s strange, I used to be so incredibly social and gregarious.  I always wanted to write down my ‘memories’ or Life Story for my daughters, so maybe this is what this is, besides also being some type of therapy journal.

I turn 41 today.  It’s a bizarre concept for me.  Strange.  I see wrinkles and grey hair, my overweight body and feel my creaking bones & other changes of age (as in my aging experience is unique to me as in I got fat, lol) but I can’t see myself as ‘41′.  I don’t know what I actually see myself as… that’s also probably what I’m working on figuring out.

I write a bunch of babble, calling some of it ‘prose’, some of it ‘poetry’ not really knowing what any of it is besides ‘My Writing’. So I write it somewhat expecting someone else will eventually read it, but do I read it (other people’s)?
I actually don’t like reading it. When I do, I’m incredibly picky about the Poetry/Prose I do read. I think most of it is either incomprehensible, and a good portion was actually meant to be written that way; or its just junk. So why do I write it and expect other people to read it?
I have no fucking idea.
That said; I apologize for wasting anyone’s time who was kind enough to read any of my blather and hated it.

As a rule I do read blogs of and return comments  to those who leave me a link to theirs (I haven’t figure out how to get to a commentors blog yet).

I never wanted to be A Writer.
I just wanted to Write.

I write, I write
Out of my mind
These voices sing
Through my hand
The words begin

Sometimes streaming
Endless and vivid
Sometimes struggling
Sluggish and yawning

But still I sit
At my silent, old desk
My hand it cramps
And it numbs
And still my mind
It races and swirls

Visions and thoughts
Inspirations and plots
So I write and I write
Page after page
Line after line

Spinning words
Whispering pages
Still I write
I must
I sweat
I bleed
My soul
Onto Paper

Still I write
And I write
With a Love Unrelenting

I write a bunch of babble, calling some of it ‘prose’, some of it ‘poetry’ not really knowing what any of it is besides ‘My Writing’. So I write it somewhat expecting someone else will eventually read it, but do I read it (other people’s)?

I actually don’t like reading it. When I do, I’m incredibly picky about the Poetry/Prose I do read.  I think most of it is either incomprehensible, and a good portion was actually meant to be written that way; or its just junk. So why do I write it and expect other people to read it?
I have no fucking idea.

I’ve been going through some old stuff I wrote and I’ve been shredding a shit-load of papers that I can’t really do anything with, they’re just taking up space. 99% of what I’ve written has never been read even by my Family, etc. even though they all know I’ve been writing since I was 6. And it’s not anything I consider publishable.
I’m starting on my funky collection of books too, I have shelves & shelves of books no one else will read here, so I’ll take them to a used bookstore so somebody else can enjoy them as I have, I hope. You have no idea what a pain in the butt it is to box up and move all these books, so that’ll be a help when I move again. I hate moving.
Anywho, I’m not putting them up for any reason other than maybe if they’re floating around on the internet, they’re not completely erased and it is easier to store them. There is some selfishness in that, obviously. My little collection of words will live forever in the black hole of the internet; I just can’t bear to destroy them completely. I’m not putting them up for review/criticism. I can’t handle rejection. I didn’t have to when I wrote stuff before, because of the type of material it was (porn and/or erotica) but I digress.