puiyenchui's Xanga

Overkill

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 20:08:25 GMT

Where is the fine line between a challenge, and simply trying to kill yourself for the sake of making it out alive? I'm not sure if this is true or not, but apparently Napoleon had failed to poison himself because he had simply taken too much poison, and his body rejected it. I'm not sure if that was success, but that seems like something I've thrown myself into. Of course, I'm not sure if my body's rejected it yet.

Once again, I find myself an outsider to my own life. Too many conversations seem cold. My inspiration seems sucked dry, and I'm fatigued when I know so clearly that I have done nothing to deserve such a languid aftertaste. The people, even, seem too cold for my liking.

Four possible problems:

1. I've learned to have fun and developed a stamina for fun.

2. I have too much personality and my eccentricity has finally turned me into a quixotic fool.

3. I've simply been living in my own world for too long, and I should be glad to be back.

4. All of the above.

Yes, I'm leaning toward number four. Sometimes I feel like Xanga's my chicken soup, even if it can be unpredictable.

Sketchpad Lullaby

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 18:55:27 GMT

The world is all of yours to draw,

A breadth beyond your veins.

Each breath you take, a step you make

To drive your treasures, reined:

Your logic and a dripping brush

Upon a mirror pool,

Dipping where those fall in place,

Your arcs and your slide rule.

Your needle and a nimble thread

That prick a harvest ripe,

Sow and sew of all you need

And nothing more, that type.

Someday, like me, you'll turn a page

Upon a canvas world,

This world you shade in all its shades,

Says an oyster to its pearl.

Question: Would it be grammatically incorrect if I said "your needle and a nimble thread / that pricks a harvest ripe"? That's how I originally wrote it, but I want to be sure.

Great Spirit

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 03:18:13 GMT

Stride the world with humble tread

That shadows all your woe.

The moon does shine in deepest night

That arms a broken bow.

Your troubles are those far ahead,

So far, they fall behind.

Follow those that plead your path

Like bitter melon rind.

Touch, then, touch our lives,

Your pride upon the sash;

That window of the darkest soul,

That shard among the ash.

Celestial Want

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 03:05:07 GMT

Lady Heaven bade the bumbling Night,
That drunken poet's pride,
To blind an eye on a fullest moon,
All shadows cast aside.

Then she went to court the quarry,
That pebble in the Sea,
That Night had thrown a skipping stone,
Lonely, an isle could be.

A man, however, had reached that orb
That trailed the careless Dark.
He'd sowed his wildest hopes and fears,
His roots in white so stark.

But Heaven, oh help her, set her mind
To carve a mask of moon.
Bright and shining, all shadows shed
So even Night would swoon.

Only she would dare- cross he, sowed there,
Despite the night half blind.
The man, indeed, had been hard with greed,
For dreams could not rewind.

Lucky for her, he fell in love
With her shining silver tress.
Lucky for him, she flirted away
While fishing for redress.

And in the end, neither could leave
The other's want behind.
The mask of moon, hung in the sky,
Is Heaven's courting find.

Eternal Spring

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 02:12:55 GMT

Intricate fountains trickle the sun,

Each summer petal

Still wrought with fits of May-

Its rusting light

Yet glowing from soft rains.

An exquisite, empty welcome;

Slow dreams

Drape easy and blooming-

The only color to perfect itself

After spilled canvas debut.

Each daylight chandelier

With its fine pale joints

Serves its own revelry,

As a rooted heart, not yet worn,

Sleeps on.

Between Light Pages

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 04:27:26 GMT

A book that fell in love
With itself, dreams of reality
And its own stolen lessons,

Undone pillars of reason, cold veins
Sculpt its bare-thread path
Where no one dared to cross.

It was not believing,
More like carrying a wind
To see it through a familiar place.

The Given Things

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 04:53:00 GMT

Threading the earth
With persistent memories
That shade a marble sky,

That cool stained glass of long ago,
Glowing and fresh in little saplings
That sleep, knotted at the roots.

It never needed silly dreams,
Vague songs with crystal spools
Of icy taste and twang,
Steamed cold when plucked
From the stores of the mind.

A forgotten loom was in those shadows
That raced darkness up the wall
Weaving in a teetering dance.

Spring, summer, winter, fall;
Always but a few memories
As they tangle in the grove,
Where words still court them.

Diminished Discovery

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:32:26 GMT

The dreamer with her palette stay,
Blind with color, peace of mind.
Struggles in their cradle lay,
Their anguish not their own to find.

Shimmering rows of gladly found
Enjoyment, their unsaid find.
Who is a novice, loud to say
They'd know their skill in quick rewind?

A foolhardy price, for endless dreams
That dangle in their dust,
For a heart so wound in lines of silk
Should forget metallic lust.

Music and Lyrics

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 18:38:58 GMT

I usually have a problem disagreeing with things that most people say, even if their opinions are justified. Just because they are justified doesn't mean that I have to agree. It's an opinion, after all.

While I was knitting and listening to a podcast this morning, there was a discussion about music and its relationship to language. That really did conjure up many ideas in my mind, as I am well-exposed to both music and language as two separate worlds. Rarely do they collide, and I can only handle so much when they do.

I understand that music does further language, as it has the ability to give a new dimension to words. With the addition of a huge variety of instruments, sounds, styles, keys, notes, and other devices of music, the language behind it can gain so much. Words will almost always be a verbal expression of feelings and thoughts, but music makes it physical, as a singer reaches down and up (metaphorically to some and not so much to others) for a high note and does the same to skim a low note, as well as pulling the words into it as well.

My problem with this dual manifestation of the human soul is that it too easily grows complacent. If music is the bridge between mortals and gods, the bridge between religion, race, culture, and so many other prejudices, then why are we hearing lyrics like "kiss me through the phone"? Things like that really prickle me, especially since those songs are considered to be in the "popular" category. Doesn't that fact drag the majority of young, vibrant minds into an abyss of drama and unneeded delusion? I would not want to "kiss someone through the phone", even if I didn't get to see him every day and as easy as that sounds, even if they requested it. It seems like a lazy, hopelessly stupid thing to say. After all, tangled emotions like that do exist. It's just that all of it could have so much more potential, if not reason to be discarded.

I understand that this sort of mentality certainly does not make up all of music, otherwise I would not own a radio or enjoy music as I do. Yet, why is it that some music, even if their makers call themselves artists, hinder the marvels of human interaction with all of its thoughtful laments and joys? Why must it so often channel something that we know too well, practically chucking it at us, instead of showing us a more intricate side of ourselves that we need a fellow human to help us see?

Time

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 03:25:37 GMT

Time flies on the back
Of a bird who sings too well,
Its mind on its wings
As it tries to fly on feathers alone.

Long ago, it was shown the way
To race the sunset, the sunrise
By drinking trickling splashes
As the sun spilled its ripest wares.

Thus, it tasted the end of the sky,
The pinched beginning
When it flew the other way.
But why go to and fro
If they tasted just the same?

________________________________________________________

Yes, I now cross-post from my Blogspot. Because I rarely hand out the address to that site, I feel like it's my little retreat in the neck of the woods, where few people decide to wander and nothing has to be mine in order for me to feel at home. It's getting exhausting, trying to make up new things for both blogs. I tend to blog heavily when I'm in a creative mood, but it's difficult to decide where to put my content. I can't really put myself into two categories, after all.

I guess you could say that my Blogspot is my desk and this Xanga is my living room. There's more paper and substance there, but there's more personality here.