Lovely Day

There are at least three possible subjects for this blog, all of which would be equally interesting and entertaining, depending on what type of entertainment you seek. If you seek humor, I could speak of a gaping hole in my back (I am officially holey) which I would use as a parody on my own life, and how most of it is complete, with the few exceptions that are like open wounds. It would be funny, I assure you. Is it weird that my parents are more concerned about a flaming sore than I am? Or I could talk about spring break, adventures taken in surfing, dating, and nintendo playing. I admit the last took much more time that I anticipated or was healthy for me, and I am now penitent. Partly because of the massive amounts of homework that face me. I could write about the joy of childhood, and how I never really got past the age of eight or nine in my mind. My body is pretty big by now, but it's not a good match with my childlike brain. What can I say? Flying cubes fascinate me, and make me feel like a little kid in a toy store.

But, no, as fun as all of those might be, I've been very thoughtful lately. As is a common event with the deeper emotions of any soul, these things should not be understood by anyone unless that person is willing to understand them. Not be understood unless willing to understand? Does that sound silly to anyone else? Anyway, the point is that I like sharing what I'm feeling, but sometime I have to share them in such a way that in order to grasp the true meaning of what I'm saying you either have to know me or be willing to put a little effort into understanding my twisted brain.

The best way to say a lot while actually saying very little is through poetry. I like poetry, though judging by the comments left by people it would seem that, of the entries allready found in this blog, the poetry is the least popular. However, I'm not writing this for you, I'm writing it for me! So there! I'm going to post my poetry, and there's nothing you can do about it!

I guess you could stop reading. I've heard that literature unread is a dead thing, but it's living in me, so I'm not too worried. I hope you enjoy this poem.


My Own Road

The road behind is well worn.
Ages of men walking there
Have broken down all the thorns,
Giving the path signs of wear.

Since the beginning I’ve had
A map, a plan, a set way;
Through all the hard and the bad,
Friends who lead with what they say.

But here the marked path ends
Atop a small hill that brings to sight
A gorgeous surrounding, beauty all around,
Until the view is blocked by a massive mountain.

The way to go is up, this much I know.
There, where others have gone,
Taking roads that were all their own, unique;
And now I stand on the hill, deciding my own path.

To my left a valley small
Of a golden field that glows
With sweet grass that to me calls
To play, and my travels slow.

To the right a shaded dale,
With a pond of clearest blue;
Where sun twinkling cannot fail
To capture your gaze, it’s true.

Between the left and the right
Endless choices may be seen;
Some are beautiful to sight,
Others present country lean.

I may be standing here
For awhile, the way I want to take is unsure.
I’ll choose eventually what for me will shine
As the best, because you see;
The road I choose will only be mine.


Because I wrote this poem, I naturally like it. There were a couple of stanzas that suprised me with their imagery and how close they came to the reality of the situation, but, then again, you might not know what the reality is, and I don't want to make things too easy for you.

Ah, but life is lovely, isn't it?