Eskype

Looking at myself, I hate it. The face all white and saggy; the smile crooked with the years of frowning over half-baked situations. It's not who I am. Complete stranger whom I seldom visit. Not the same reflection the mirror partakes, it's the one in the Skype screen, the one that takes no prisoners. The skype doesn't lie, but I wish it would or have the ability to add some filters to diffuse the horror of it all. A little bit of dusk around the edges, erasers for the folds and droop of eyelid. And when I gaze at this vision I wonder of the first impression it gives. Does it make people want to pass? Not get to know who I am beneath the melting image the years created; gravity not anyone's friend. I know as I see it I'm reminded of my mother who had this permanent scowl as if everyone on the planet was out to disappoint. Not a standard I want to envision or offer. Yet perhaps if my look is offensive it will accompany my need for alone. The solitary I'm comfortable with. Who I really am. Lover of greatness; dissuade of warped vision. Beauty in the eye of the beholder, fragile lines un-admired by me.

Not Feeling (It)

Anything is possible, but why is it that when visiting my other house I felt strong vibes, lightening of my muse bathing me in light? Doesn't happen at my present address, in fact it's like living in a constant solar eclipse, missing the really cool phenomenon of ancient cultures. Bricks and mortar shouldn't affect what comes from beneath my skin, but as I walked into my former home its pull kept me nailed to the floor. With it I felt all the good creative juice flowing through the smells, from the windows that still posses the spittle of my best friend. Why does brick and mortar posses a special spell. Has it conjured a curse to follow me where I presently live? Does it hold a grudge for leaving? Did the pool liner malfunction as a way to command its destruction, or am I just waxing poetic because I'll otherwise melt into a puddle of regret? Life isn't supposed to be this difficult. My soul isn't supposed to sit in the dark and wonder why my fingers aren't kicking up some very good prose. But still here I sit with many ideas but not an ounce of courage to spill to the page. Ideas trapped behind the shadowy sunlight of missing splendor. My muse is anemic.