I think I'll submit a lot more deviations soon, and resubmit the ones already in my gallery. I haven't written a poem in a long time, and it bothers me. I mean, I still write (compulsively), journal entries and thoughts and things like that, but actual, "structured" pieces of writing feel almost like a thing of the past. I was never at all a prolific writer; I wrote in bursts of feeling, and couldn't really plan or organize anything I wrote; I'm not the kind of person who can just sit down and write every day as forced routine. I realize that when I first started writing poetry, I didn't write a whole lot of it, and there were long intervals between poems, but towards the "end" (oh, I don't want to think of an end) I wrote them sort of regularly. I even remember a very brief period where I couldn't wait to get home to write two poems or something a day (which is pretty productive for me). Writing has always been kind of a form of self-induced torture as well as a love for me. There are reasons why it's so difficult for me to write (I feel like everything is difficult for me now, even just thinking about anything, because it just goes on and on and never, never stops; it's like plunging beneath the surface to a crushing depth; I can't think for all the thinking I do), but I won't go into them now.

...I once wrote a story in which she was personified. And someone asked me what she looked like, and I said as old as she was, and they asked how old was she?, and I said at least thousands of years, and later on I realized the thickheadedness of this answer. How old was Time?? I said thousands of years old. She is, by any calculations, at least some billions. But it's hard for any of us to grasp the idea that there might not have been Time long ago... And even in this very sentence I have to refer to Time. Time is essential to us, and you will find that in every sentence of this paragraph, I mentioned Time at least once, referred to it. That's because we're so used to relating Time to things we did, saw, said...and imagining a universe without Time, a non-universe, a nonexistence I should say, is almost inconceivable. Time must have been born sometime... Think of the irony of that: that you have to connect the birth of a concept to the concept itself, although it hadn't existed up until that point.

“Once upon a time there were four girls. One was pretty. One was clever. One charming, and one…was mysterious. But they were all damaged, you see. Something not right about the lot of them. Bad blood. Big dreams… One by one, night after night, the girls came together. And they sinned… Their sin was that they believed. Believed they could be different. Special. They believed they could change what they were – damaged, unloved. Cast-off things… They were misled. Betrayed by their own stupid hopes…. So life took them, led them, and they went along, you see? They faded before their own eyes, till they were nothing more than living ghosts, haunting each other with what could be. What can’t be… There, now. Isn’t that the scariest story you’ve ever heard?”

"Time's funny. When you're a kid, it passes slowly, and next thing you're fifty and your childhood fits into a rusty little box."

What they said:

This kind of struck me when watching the movie.

[link]

Time itself is entirely a function of memory (storage and retrieval), which creates the illusion that we're on a timeline, always moving from the past into the future.

Think about that. Wouldn't that make this possible?

Be open minded.

What I said:

Time is a convenient way for us to relate a sequence of events to something we can grasp. It's not a TANGIBLE thing, but it's real. I mean, we really are always moving into the future, we grow, there's a certain order of events, and there is no way to go back into the past and change things that already occurred; THAT in itself isn't an illusion. Memory is what would give us our VIEW of time, how we measure it in relation to ourselves, but that doesn't mean we're all just imagining that there's such a thing as time. Memory's the only way to understand the concept of time, but sometimes it's a bit like pounding this huge, abstract mass to fit into a little convenient-sized box.

It is, however, possible that our memories portray a picture that is different than how it really is, that it creates fabrications once the moment is passed, since now is only NOW, one tiny second. And then it's past, too, and we rely on our memories to say, "Oh, I was doing this a few minutes ago," and so on and so forth. If you think in general terms, "now" could be today, or this week, or this month, or year. In reality, it...hardly exists at all. We only know what we remember. Our lives pretty much just consist of our memories.

...talk of life."

"Nozzle, nodule, eraser, chip:
A few thoughts on the subject by a little...nothing.
What was so obviously strange, yet mystifying true about the whole situation,
Was Miss Connie Pallups' failure to grasp that the time was indeed now
If she was to ever recover vitality to her mortal envelope.
Oh sure, she liked perfume, and she had a lot of it, too.
But pampered wisps do not a cloth doll make.
And there we have a lesson that is easier to speak of than - how you say - live by?"

Endomorph

Morning has broken and what do I see
But those same bloody fingerprints following me
It don't pay to be careful don't pay to be nice
So it's backward and forward and back again twice
I don't think I'll try again

Guilty was all that I felt until now
Go ahead say I'm wrong but I'm curious how
All you people get up and then don't arrive late
Do you pray every day and then patiently wait?
I don't think I'll try again

I'm known as the Endomorph
I'm slow I go back and forth
I'm known as the Endomorph

Punishment comes for no reason I've seen
Then it stays for a while keeping quiet between
What you said what take place if my big mouth was shut
And I pray every day and it's all o.k. but I don't
Think I'll try again

"Mr. E. Leon Rauis" - Rasputina

I keep pictures of him in my mind
Yeah you know the kind
They curl up on the edges
The corners are bended into
A trick pulled from behind

Physically he is serene
He looks good he looks clean
I know he's dead but I know what he said
But I think
I know what he might mean

With many thanks for your well, well wishes, he says
Believe me, sincerely yours
Mr. E. Leon Rauis would say
It's sentiment which he abhors

Seventeen Union Square North
Did he walk back and forth
In the glass at the shop
Did he smile did he stop for a while
Did he question his worth?

Seventeen Union Square West
Dressed up looking his best
Mr. E. Leon Rauis could never know
How this would seem
His one small request

Regretfully so he still wants you to know
Of the things in his heart he can't say
His penmanship does a disservice
It's illegible to this day
Oh, Mr. E. Leon Rauis, believe me
I hope it all turned out o.k.

Picking a shop for the shoot
Did he buy a new suit
Was he tall was he kind
Did he finally find it that day
Was his end absolute?

He got old like everyone
Was he somebody's son
Did he fail did he try to succeed
To deny what he knew
Or things he had done?