I Want to Tell My Story
This was once in my ABOUT ME. I wrote it quite some time ago.
*THE MADMAN*
I am not what you'd call a scholar. I never even finished the 10th grade. I don't know nothing about really writing or anything like that. I don't know if I'm writing poems or poetry, or something else all together. I can rhyme though, I know that much. I also know it makes me feel better when I do write my paltry little things and people tell me they're good. Yet still, with all of the kind words I receive about them I still have a hard time believing that they're anything more than simple things. Things that in the world of literature or inside of educated circles, would ever be viewed as anything worth mentioning. Not that it matters much, I guess. I'll keep writing them anyway, despite the feelings that I have of their less than stellar nature. I've been told before that I should gather up a collection of some of my favorites and see if I can get them published. Given my lack of faith in my skills, I doubt that will ever happen. One of my sister's try to encourage me to enter a contest or something. Another rejection in this life isn't really something I think I'd be interested in though. With that said, I shall attempt a dissection of these things I call rhymes and verse of The Person trapped inside The Poet. The Madman if you will..... A creature borne from misery and who strides laughingly towards his fate and destiny in the knowing of how it shall end. A being that so easily slices off pieces of his soul with every typened word. Throwing them at the screen through his fingertips, where they lie bloodied and bleeding before you, for your daily consumption. Ah yes...., The Dreamer, The Hiker, a Hikingman, and a SilentSentinel...., The Snowdog ! He hath gone before the world and hath been called many a name. Though most know him simply as Rob. What is he in truth ? A tough question for anyone to answer. Indeed even he could not tell you. He lives..., oh yes he lives. He loves...., oh my, how he does love. He loses...., time and again, does he lose. He does them all with a flourish of word and a rapture of rhyme. And through it all, he learns... the lessons the former three teach him. But that does little to answer the question, now does it ? No. It does not help us at all, though it all is true enough. The truth as he sees it is hardly ever the truth as all others see it but it is his truth, and that is true enough. Perceptual Pondering's and Conceptual Confrontations aside...., the truth is still the truth, and that is true enough. He is broken. In the truest sense of the word. For anything not whole can be considered such. Anyone so filled with fissures and rifts as he, must surely be as broken as I say. For what else could best describe his soul ? Yes, my friends..., he is broken. Not whole, and very incomplete. His frantic poetics scream of the chasms and canyons that lay hidden deep within, there behind his ever growing smile. A thing in and of itself a wry and wondrous betrayal of his heart. Ah yes....., he is broken indeed. "How do I know these things ?" One might be tempted to ask me. I know, my friends, because I am The Watchman..., The TrackerExtraordinaire..., His sane half-brother. I know this poet...., this madman, almost as well as I know my own self. Yes..., I know..., this surely does sound crazy, now doesn't it ? Though truly...., what is to be considered crazy in a land such as this ? A land where everyday people play at being themselves while hidden behind the cloths of anonymity, and subterfuge. A land where people destroy themselves and then get reborn, reincarnated, morphing into that being of a different name, in a different shell. No..., as I said..., I am the sane one here. So..., shall I continue ? I think I shall.... The Snowdog -- He is kind. He is generous, and he tries to be giving. His friendliest of discourse, serving as it might, to spread smiles throughout the world. He pulls them from his backpack and shares them with any he finds in need. All as he hikes through the Mountainous terrain of the Thoughts and Experiences of other's here in the hyperpaced world of the interwebs. Climbing the literal peaks and descending into the deepest of virtual valleys he must traverse along the way. Like a superhero of silliness does he fly forth fighting to form smiles out of frowns. Truly an endeavor worthy of his inane abilities. Everything happens for a reason. We might not be sure what that reason is while it's happening or even after it's happened. We might never even know what the reason was. But one thing's for sure...., there was a reason. It is in the knowledge of this that he continues on his way. Posting pleasing platitudes of poetic prose, purposefully poised in the perfectionary passivity of a person of positivity. Ah, yes indeed. His manners don't often fail him in the regard of entertainments and smiles to those who stop long enough to greet him. Crying out with a Whoot Whoot of exclamation as he goes. He rhymes and pontificates. Babbles and brainstorms. Educating himself to the many wonders of life. Yet never yet has he learned his true purpose. Yet he continues..., And with his truest of intent and purest of his mind shall he pursue the heavens light and the touch of God upon his soul. And though the denizen of hell beckon, he heeds them not. His songs of loss and sorrow doth drowned those voices and though the never ending hazes of his vision, shall it be that he might find freedom.He lives not by the sword, but by the willingness to wield it. He shall not then perish by it either but by him placing it to his side at the time of reckoning. He shall not wander aimless through these hell's but instead he tracks his prey with a meticulous purpose, and design. Hunting down those things worthy of slaying forever. Aye, the hour doth be darkened by the shadowy spectres of ghosts and ghouls that follow him, he hath his torch. Aye though that road be long and weary doth he trudge towards it's final destination. Aye though his mountain in the fore be high and perilous shall he climb it. To stand victorious. To look down upon those with doubt and ridicule for him, and laugh upon them as they cling to the safeties on the ever winding roads of ease and contentment. To rejoice in the knowing of what floats freely above him, encompassing all. For he knows the truth. He knows that when fear itself comes to offer decision upon a man it is the man who is free to decide. To have thine fears sway judgement is to not choose, but rather to have the fear do so for thee. Aye , he hath chose the ever long road of an upward climb. He doth relish in it's challenge. And be that as it may..., that this accounting and reporting be not the whole if it, and does not answer in full the original question before history, it is all I have the heart to type. I do hope in here you can find a piece of that answer for yourself.
*THE MADMAN*
I am not what you'd call a scholar. I never even finished the 10th grade. I don't know nothing about really writing or anything like that. I don't know if I'm writing poems or poetry, or something else all together. I can rhyme though, I know that much. I also know it makes me feel better when I do write my paltry little things and people tell me they're good. Yet still, with all of the kind words I receive about them I still have a hard time believing that they're anything more than simple things. Things that in the world of literature or inside of educated circles, would ever be viewed as anything worth mentioning. Not that it matters much, I guess. I'll keep writing them anyway, despite the feelings that I have of their less than stellar nature. I've been told before that I should gather up a collection of some of my favorites and see if I can get them published. Given my lack of faith in my skills, I doubt that will ever happen. One of my sister's try to encourage me to enter a contest or something. Another rejection in this life isn't really something I think I'd be interested in though. With that said, I shall attempt a dissection of these things I call rhymes and verse of The Person trapped inside The Poet. The Madman if you will..... A creature borne from misery and who strides laughingly towards his fate and destiny in the knowing of how it shall end. A being that so easily slices off pieces of his soul with every typened word. Throwing them at the screen through his fingertips, where they lie bloodied and bleeding before you, for your daily consumption. Ah yes...., The Dreamer, The Hiker, a Hikingman, and a SilentSentinel...., The Snowdog ! He hath gone before the world and hath been called many a name. Though most know him simply as Rob. What is he in truth ? A tough question for anyone to answer. Indeed even he could not tell you. He lives..., oh yes he lives. He loves...., oh my, how he does love. He loses...., time and again, does he lose. He does them all with a flourish of word and a rapture of rhyme. And through it all, he learns... the lessons the former three teach him. But that does little to answer the question, now does it ? No. It does not help us at all, though it all is true enough. The truth as he sees it is hardly ever the truth as all others see it but it is his truth, and that is true enough. Perceptual Pondering's and Conceptual Confrontations aside...., the truth is still the truth, and that is true enough. He is broken. In the truest sense of the word. For anything not whole can be considered such. Anyone so filled with fissures and rifts as he, must surely be as broken as I say. For what else could best describe his soul ? Yes, my friends..., he is broken. Not whole, and very incomplete. His frantic poetics scream of the chasms and canyons that lay hidden deep within, there behind his ever growing smile. A thing in and of itself a wry and wondrous betrayal of his heart. Ah yes....., he is broken indeed. "How do I know these things ?" One might be tempted to ask me. I know, my friends, because I am The Watchman..., The TrackerExtraordinaire..., His sane half-brother. I know this poet...., this madman, almost as well as I know my own self. Yes..., I know..., this surely does sound crazy, now doesn't it ? Though truly...., what is to be considered crazy in a land such as this ? A land where everyday people play at being themselves while hidden behind the cloths of anonymity, and subterfuge. A land where people destroy themselves and then get reborn, reincarnated, morphing into that being of a different name, in a different shell. No..., as I said..., I am the sane one here. So..., shall I continue ? I think I shall.... The Snowdog -- He is kind. He is generous, and he tries to be giving. His friendliest of discourse, serving as it might, to spread smiles throughout the world. He pulls them from his backpack and shares them with any he finds in need. All as he hikes through the Mountainous terrain of the Thoughts and Experiences of other's here in the hyperpaced world of the interwebs. Climbing the literal peaks and descending into the deepest of virtual valleys he must traverse along the way. Like a superhero of silliness does he fly forth fighting to form smiles out of frowns. Truly an endeavor worthy of his inane abilities. Everything happens for a reason. We might not be sure what that reason is while it's happening or even after it's happened. We might never even know what the reason was. But one thing's for sure...., there was a reason. It is in the knowledge of this that he continues on his way. Posting pleasing platitudes of poetic prose, purposefully poised in the perfectionary passivity of a person of positivity. Ah, yes indeed. His manners don't often fail him in the regard of entertainments and smiles to those who stop long enough to greet him. Crying out with a Whoot Whoot of exclamation as he goes. He rhymes and pontificates. Babbles and brainstorms. Educating himself to the many wonders of life. Yet never yet has he learned his true purpose. Yet he continues..., And with his truest of intent and purest of his mind shall he pursue the heavens light and the touch of God upon his soul. And though the denizen of hell beckon, he heeds them not. His songs of loss and sorrow doth drowned those voices and though the never ending hazes of his vision, shall it be that he might find freedom.He lives not by the sword, but by the willingness to wield it. He shall not then perish by it either but by him placing it to his side at the time of reckoning. He shall not wander aimless through these hell's but instead he tracks his prey with a meticulous purpose, and design. Hunting down those things worthy of slaying forever. Aye, the hour doth be darkened by the shadowy spectres of ghosts and ghouls that follow him, he hath his torch. Aye though that road be long and weary doth he trudge towards it's final destination. Aye though his mountain in the fore be high and perilous shall he climb it. To stand victorious. To look down upon those with doubt and ridicule for him, and laugh upon them as they cling to the safeties on the ever winding roads of ease and contentment. To rejoice in the knowing of what floats freely above him, encompassing all. For he knows the truth. He knows that when fear itself comes to offer decision upon a man it is the man who is free to decide. To have thine fears sway judgement is to not choose, but rather to have the fear do so for thee. Aye , he hath chose the ever long road of an upward climb. He doth relish in it's challenge. And be that as it may..., that this accounting and reporting be not the whole if it, and does not answer in full the original question before history, it is all I have the heart to type. I do hope in here you can find a piece of that answer for yourself.
51-55, M
