Pure Morning

Tomorrow we return to your normally scheduled broadcasting.

Also known as "Learning in a controlled environment".

This means an end to the homework-less days,

Of hanging out after school,

And care-freely doing nothing of significance.

I hate to see it go.

I miss playing my electric guitar already.

The first string snapped off of it yesterday and smacked my hand

And scared me,

And I don't trust myself to restring the thing.

It's already bothering me that it doesn't have one string on.

Is that going to drastically effect the pressure placed on the neck?

I feel like a total newb.

I don't have a clue as to what I'm doing.

Poor guitar,

Placed very ill-advisedly into my caretaking.

There's not a thing wrong with my very-old acoustic,

It's just

Strange.

The strings are awfully bulky and bright

In comparison to the smooth and mellow electric strings.

It's bothering me.

Enough, enough.

It seemed I has something to say,

Something of significance, perhaps?

I doubt it.

Although,

I am now severely questioning

How deep my poetry is.

It all seems very surface-level, I'm just barely skimming the surface

Of the lake that is poetry.

My rock is skipping madly across the surface.

How can I manipulate human emotion in poetry?

How can poetry manipulate human emotion?

I was reading some work today,

And the back cover stated that the authors stopped writing at 19.

Yet he had produced a beautiful piece about life. Human life,

It was called "A Season in Hell"

I want to read the whole thing.

I also want, desperately, in fact, to make my mediocre work

Into something

Heart-wrenching

And 'true'.

By 'true',

I mean true to the art and whatever the subject is.

It's hard to explain what I wish to gain here.

Have a (probably mediocre) poem:

The Expedition

In the countryside,

Lurks a barren sea.

Green waving blades,

Tickled by the sunshine.

-

As along the waves we walk,

Completely lost in the winds,

And the changing tide

As crickets ricochet

Off the flying tendrils

Of green sea,

Singing a quiet

Sea shanty,

That we, too, whistle

As we are carried off

In the sea.

-

The sky above the only break from

The rolling green,

That mocks us,

As if to say

We are not sailors,

But botanists.

In a boat

Not fit to sail the white waves.

But a boat made to sail

In the meadows.

-

Wildflowers,

Blue and purple,

Yellow.

In our hair,

Crowns of dead sea creatures,

The spoils of our expedition,

As we roll along the hills.

-

I crown you king of sea and air,

As you steer our course north-westernly.

Slicing through the grappling blades,

-

Slick again in the morning fog.

So green is our only horizon,

Us botanist-sailors

Tromp through the knee-high

Waves.

Watching for slithering companions

On the sandy floor.

Ripples from the surface,

Carried down.

-

At last, we come to see a shoal,

A harbour for our safety.

I lay down my butterfly-whaling net,

And you lie down in the dunes,

As we watch the sky pass,

Surrounded by the country's sea,

Shimmering silvery underneath

Cloudless, endless domain.

You and I,

Conquerers of the sea.