Happy Birthday to me!
Rockin the 1-8 in tha house,
or somthing like that...
Friday, November 21, 2003
The last poem is unfinished, but I had to get it out before November is over. I feel like I've been asleep for 3 months. I know I have. I just don't know how to explain what november is to me.
Well, just look out the window.
Everything is dead and brown, the trees are bare and the warmth of summer has faded.
All the things I should have accomplished this year.... The warmths of spring and summer are hope. The hope and promise this year had, but I have screwed it all up. The hope fades to a chill and now winter approaches. I can't stand the cold.
Maybe if I had just stored up some hope and love for the winter it would not be so cold. If I had just done somthing these past 11 months instead of living in my stupid mixed up head. What the hell was all this speculation for, without action it is all useless. My reward for my hermatage is more hermitage. More lonelyness. More cold, more cold.
November, its all about death to me. I look outside to the walls of my prison, the hills covered in trees. No leaves. Fall back, it gets dark at 4:30. Im enshrouded in my coffin, (Coudersport) It gets dark so early in the day.. and it just gets colder outside the temperature drops. I just cant explain....
someone said: "I can understand why someone would want to die this time of year,
but why would you want to be born in November."
it was such a thoughtless patronizing thing to say..
It didn't comfort me either at the time, It was all just too much
Im just a rude thing born in the season of the dead.
I still mourn, I still remember this is November...
its too much to think about the beginning and end in one month.
Well, just look out the window.
Everything is dead and brown, the trees are bare and the warmth of summer has faded.
All the things I should have accomplished this year.... The warmths of spring and summer are hope. The hope and promise this year had, but I have screwed it all up. The hope fades to a chill and now winter approaches. I can't stand the cold.
Maybe if I had just stored up some hope and love for the winter it would not be so cold. If I had just done somthing these past 11 months instead of living in my stupid mixed up head. What the hell was all this speculation for, without action it is all useless. My reward for my hermatage is more hermitage. More lonelyness. More cold, more cold.
November, its all about death to me. I look outside to the walls of my prison, the hills covered in trees. No leaves. Fall back, it gets dark at 4:30. Im enshrouded in my coffin, (Coudersport) It gets dark so early in the day.. and it just gets colder outside the temperature drops. I just cant explain....
someone said: "I can understand why someone would want to die this time of year,
but why would you want to be born in November."
it was such a thoughtless patronizing thing to say..
It didn't comfort me either at the time, It was all just too much
Im just a rude thing born in the season of the dead.
I still mourn, I still remember this is November...
its too much to think about the beginning and end in one month.
---November--
One day's Indian summer is swept away by a chilling breeze,
The festive orange, yellow and red, depart from the shivering trees.
The slothful sun slips down the hills, evading the end of the day.
The leaves blowing in the wind, trace winters crystilline way..
November is the start
of the turning of my heart
down autumn's dimly lighted road.
Loneliness is this month's somber mode.
I want to flare out and burn the dark
But can only stir the ashes in my heart,
I can only life the voice inside of me
So well as to whimper an elegy.
November is the start
of the turning of my heart.
Its the Twilight of the seasons,
where I wander without reason.
-Naya
One day's Indian summer is swept away by a chilling breeze,
The festive orange, yellow and red, depart from the shivering trees.
The slothful sun slips down the hills, evading the end of the day.
The leaves blowing in the wind, trace winters crystilline way..
November is the start
of the turning of my heart
down autumn's dimly lighted road.
Loneliness is this month's somber mode.
I want to flare out and burn the dark
But can only stir the ashes in my heart,
I can only life the voice inside of me
So well as to whimper an elegy.
November is the start
of the turning of my heart.
Its the Twilight of the seasons,
where I wander without reason.
-Naya
