Wonder

Everytime I stop to think
And look within, trying to understand
The thoughts that go into who I am
Forever breaking away from the plan.

Am I a free spirit, ne'er to be held?
Or just a clumsy and unlucky oaf,
Who suffers times only fell -
These questions never stop,
And step into the inane;
Why must I only write poetry,
When most of my work remains?

There is some irony there,
Or maybe a lot -
I cannot know,
I'm just a dot -
Tiny and without depth,
In a world beyond perspective -
Wishing he was alive in another world,
Where Batman was truly the greatest detective.

So while I play the music in my head -
Yellow sung in Amber's squeaky voice;
I lie awake in my messy bed,
Thinking of the nature of choice.
Absurd as it is, I cannot figure
Why the circlets of silver and gold I treasure;
For they lock me in and mark me out,
Yet emotions mean I can't do without.

In any case, as I've sad 'ere before -
The secret of poetry,
It's very core -
Lies in knowing when it should end -
And yet I've overmade this, as I oft tend.
So without much ado,
I bid adieu -
To you, you, you and you.
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Silly whimsical poetry, but it's true - all this only happens when I'm up at night trying to get some damn work done on my bloody project. Mayhaps there is some merit in handwriting projects - Al Gore's 'information superhighway' won't be this temptation that's always around. However, it's good to know that the cell I'm in is now in full capacity, and has a new food cooling unit in it. :-)

Oh, and I've also realised that sketching doesn't happen unless you shouldn't be wanting it to happen. I took the pencils, took a sketchbook, went home for the holidays - and there was NO inspiration. None. And I'm back, without the sketchbook, and I'm making faces on ruled notebooks all day.

Someone has my puppet strings, and is being quite a jerk about it.

PS: Extra points for spotting the really sad pun.