A respite that ended with an unfinished sonnet.

I guess I'm back here to prove something

Everybody thought that it died in me 

too bad it did not go gently, instead it tossed and turned 

to test if I still had the ability to just spit on the page 

gross, isn't it? But that doesn't matter when you're pretty much 

scraping for time. My writing process has never been prompt. 

It's aimless and doesn't conform to any stricture I know of. 

I wish I could speak to it and see what form it'd take, but it'd surely

change its stripes every single time. And once I've gotten used to that, 

it'd flip the entire design. I know it seems neurotic to talk about a piece of your own intellectual process. 

I've already admitted to myself that there's more to my wordplay than just slight hints, purposely dropped over my shoulder hoping you pick it up and yell "Mr. Green in the" and that's when it stops because we're not in a mansion. 

First person exposition is a drag. I personally hate it. Nobody cares about what I have to say, especially me, but months of not writing will leave a lot of personal chit cat bottled up. A lot of I told you so's sewed into the margins. I just remembered a student of mine needed tape for a book. As a teacher you always want to be able to solve problems immediately. 

But some problems need to linger before you can solve them. I don't know for how long or what need to be done, but certainly it's a difficult process to negotiate to be sure. I will figure it out and get back to you all. 

Yet another problem created. This blog post is just what I always wanted. Hah if you don't get that, it's fine. I'm getting old, so I'm a bit dated and I don't have a day like Feb 2nd. 

Keep going, I know for a fact that I have no rhythm so I just make it up as I go. But when I see people with actual flow, I marvel and wonder what am I going to do with this now. So I just open a youtube instrumental and write to the sound. 

These are just musings. Small thoughts bunched on  a page. I promise there's no reasoning nor is there anything to gain from reading these etches. You are my digital etch and sketch. I now know the reason to read high brow literature is to let it become etched in your brain because even now I can see a Foucaultian resistive history forming on this page.   

Enough with the slanted talk. I'm tired of it. I think I'd rather just be able to talk in a normal fashion for the rest of this splurge. I'm depleting my ability to think with all of this writing. Or perhaps freeing it, allowing it wonder because it was cramped. 

I guess for those who decided to even read this you get to have something from me. A small offering to those of you who waste your time whenever I try to make rimes (straight shooter there). 

I finish this blogpost with a formal assault 

And fitting too as the rest have been improper 

I cannot  believe those raging riots are for naught 

Perhaps some fear is exactly what they're after

Too bad the tables turn all too quickly for them 

Weird to have a pronoun used to designate you 

So we link our arms and try desperately to mend 

The justice system you choose to consistently abuse. 

I fear, my friends, our idle lives are done. 

These tumultuous times have crept on us. 

We must sacrifice till this struggle is won. 

So when we answer our children, we are honest 

Unfinished turn needed