Capture lucidity
in the form of words;
call brilliance by "simplicity"
and make statements
that are absurdly clear;
clarity then, by definition, truth.
And the erudite man then weeps
brokenhearted by gentle words
that, to him, touch
what he forever is reaching.
But from the other side
instanity grins its possession
and taps the mind mindlessly along
in the pattern of "no-pattern"
to produce everything and nothing;
the combined formula
called random.
And the erudite man's sataiation
is meaningless meaning.
Author notes
2 days, 3 hours sleep. A little caffeine to take the edge off my sleepiness and for the first time in a very long while, I've captured a little bit of the passionate teenager I once was--the one that believed words had saving power, and then if I could just write, I would be doing something worthwhile, something that had an impact. The teenager I was before I became the apathetic cynic that believes that writing holds no more meaning than any other task; that my words, despite their saving status to me many times, will have no affect on any others.
But it's an artifical discovery; one made purely by the fact that I can barely keep my brain at functioning level. Once a full night sleep is obtained, the feeling will pass.
All that to say that I do my best writing when exhaustion sets in. This piece may be good, or it may be not, but that is irrelevant; I know myself well enough to know that a lot of things I write when I am exhausted I could never think up when I am lucid, and clear-minded. I've heard that's common.
But how can words that only have meaning to me when I am not myself in a way, have any validity? How can someone decipher them in any way when in truth they are just the ramblings of a person who is not fully functioning? That's the question that sparked this poem.
Comments
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A poem about how a poem is nothing more than random lines that affect random people in random ways... Interesting.
Overall a decent poem. I think majority of writers can relate to your author's note; I know I can. But that's what makes writing such a special thing to many, the clear mind found in the most exhausted state.
"And the erudite man then weeps
brokenhearted by gentle words
that, to him, touch
what he forever is reaching."
Think on that stanza for a moment. Is that statement not exactly why a person writes? To reach for something constantly that can be obtained through words?
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