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| (Image from Oliver's Twisty Tales) |
Sandbags
I am weary of being me,
tired of being
myself.
I feel like
I am eighty years old,
not twenty years old.
My body aches to understand
all
of the
pain and
pleasure of being alive:
living on my own;
living for my art;
living from my art;
making love;
making hate;
I want to experience!
My mind, unfortunately, thinks
that
it has
lived a life
already and is
too weary to play anymore.
My mind has analyzed,
calculated,
criticized,
exorcised,
pasteurized
and eliminated
all of the possibilities.
My spirit, though, is a feisty
son
of
a
bitch!
And my spirit
can pull my mind
to higher places, like
a hot air balloon pulls the
sandbags trying to hold it down.
-Paul Whiting
(a.k.a., A Creative Writer)
"I maybe say too much about how life really is!"
My Writing Notes:
The reason that I wrote this poem can be summed up with the following statement: I wrote this poem when I was really frustrated with feeling as if "I had lived this life already," which probably has something to do with My Karma.
And I was tired of playing the same old game: I felt like I had already "been there, done that!"
At the same time, however, I still felt as if I was being "pulled by my spirit to higher places" in order to overcome any doubt and to keep plugging away at my lifelong desire to become an artist.
Just so you know, I revised this poem, as I often do with my writing! And I changed how this poem was written when I was editing it on my "Small All White in the Forest" and "Paul Whiting — A Creative Writer" blogs. So, I wanted to show you how this poem used to be written, before I revised it as above.
And it used to be written like this:
Sandbags
I am weary of being me; tired of
being
myself.
I feel like
an eighty-year-old twenty-year-old.
My body aches to understand
all
of the
pain and
pleasure of being alive:
moving out, living for my
art, living from my art, making love,
making hate. I want to experience!
My mind, unfortunately, thinks
that
it has
lived a life
already and
is too weary to play anymore.
My mind has analyzed,
calculated,
criticized,
exorcised,
pasteurized
and eliminated
all of the possibilities.
My spirit, however, is a feisty
son
of
a
bitch,
and it pulls my
mind to higher places,
like a hot air balloon pulls the
sandbags trying to hold it down.
Thus, I revised this poem to be written as it is above.
And this poem was also published on my "Small All White in the Forest" blog (please see the hyperlink below for the blog), since I feel that the message in this poem applies to the message that I am trying to convey through "Small All White in the Forest."
This poem was written in Salt Lake City, Utah.
-Paulee
https://smallallwhiteintheforest.blogspot.com
This "Paul Whiting — A Creative Writer" Post No. 004 was edited on September 7th, 2023.
"Poetry is using the fewest words possible in order to describe all that is possible to describe." –Paul Whiting [June 1st, 2022]
