Poems--Writing to Jazz

Nothing like writing to live jazz,

Dining to the pizazz of a cold, foreign beer;

Beautiful smiles abound,

People, warm to the touch,

Enjoying a swarm of conversation and such.

A breath of fresh air; a feeling of debonair lingers in it,

Where you measure success by how often you wince in delight;

A tweak of your brow, a glance at the crowd,

Immersed in the sounds of earthly delight.

That feel of a loud, jazzy night,

The feel of another life...

These lights all around me,

They glisten, they shine with the promise of what surrounds me,

And I'm pleased.

As I breathe,

My nostrils take in the fragrance of a poem fluidly written,

A program so truly smitten by my pen's code,

Irregular soul clashing with hazy thoughts of a clenched hold,

Over this paper,

Over this latent place I've found myself traced in,

And I rather like it.

Just like I like my pen.

It's honest,

Even when I'd rather not be.

Just like jazz.

Musings on Overthinking

I suppose I just feel like writing. You know, as a poet, I always feel compelled to rhyme, to sell my mind on paper. But I suppose that sometimes, it's best to forsake my talent, to take in the entirety of what my mind has to offer, beyond the metric rhythms floating in this magnet of thought patterns I call my brain.

Mostly, I'd like to arrange a way to not think...well, not not think, just...not think so hard. It's something I'm very good at, and which occasionally sparks a backlash from those around me. Mostly just love interests. Mostly just women. And, you know, I can't decide if I prefer it that way; is it good to be this original, this unique of a mural, so much so that I push them away at times? Perhaps it's the weak ones, or the ones most drawn to me, that run away with fervency equal to their initial interest. I really can't tell--can you tell just how dissonant all this is, how I can't shut my analytical side even long enough to consider the simplicity of my plight, if one could even call it that? It really is rather bothersome...

Maybe I'm a genius, I don't know, but of all the stereotypes I might find in common with the truth of my grey matter, the one I think would fit most well would have to be the one of genius trapped in social inferiority, which--ironically enough--I don't know if conforms to this, since I get along rather well with others. Then again, it took me until the latter part of my latter years of adolescence to find enough in common with others, to find enough to smatter within myself, to find common enough sounds to mutter. So then perhaps there is a latency I cannot shake, of social misfittance, of a failure to relate on a denominator level with others, including women, although I can't be bothered to find out, because I also like my style. My approach, the words I find worthwhile, it's all a part of all I cherish, and if I did not care, then, well, I wouldn't be myself then.

But I like me. Even with the inconveniences it brings. And when I feel like writing, well...that's as good a sign as any that I'm pretty happy.