The English language is Incredible.
"Find meanings and definitions of words at Dictionary.com!"
You can't find the meaning of life in a dictionary. You can't find the meaning of emotion and intellect behind a computer screen. Or, can you?
Two cans and a string is all you need to connect with another individual.
No it's not, it's much more difficult.
Pitiful, really, how often people prefer the reciprocal.
And why does it have to be difficult, anyway?
I mean, it's biblical; Iron sharpens iron.
I've got to stop hiding my metal in the bottom drawer.
I have more than I could have ever asked for, and instead of appreciating it for what it is, I've left myself in a million broken pieces on the floor. What am I even talking about anymore?
This isn't a poem.
I have a tendency to think too critically of myself.
I also have a tendency to rhyme. I get on my own nerves.
Google this, Google that.
Just Google it. That's not even a verb, you don't "google" things. Vocabulary changes. "Text" wasn't a verb either, T9 doesn't even recognize the term "texting" (neither does my internet spell check, apparently).
You don't grasp how quickly and dramatically things are changing while it happens, but once you look back, you realize everything is completely different, and will never be the same again.
Word processor's are very convenient. You know, essays and such. But that squiggly red line amplifies my mistakes like no other. You know exactly what I'm talking about too; you misspell something, or use a name or word the system doesn't recognize, and it's all over from there. That red line screams ERROR as if there are no means to make amends for the unforgivable mistake. Even a typo isn't acceptable, even new terminology ("texting" for example) can't make it out alive.
That red line is a reflection of my mistakes in the fullest. Of course, the squiggly characteristic isn't exactly accurate. But anyways.
You're so helpful, Microsoft Word, but why do you have to dramatize my faults so boldly?
It's okay, I understand. Someone has to, especially if I've become so accustomed to shoving everything to the back of my closet, stuffing my bottom drawer. It's so ironic, that my "sharpening iron" of companionship isn't the only metal hidden behind my mask of composure.
What?
This is what happens when I allow myself to chase the blips of imagination floating around in the exhausted space of my mind.
This is also what happens when I get on the computer to do my English homework and refuse to carry through.
Congratulations, you've just experienced a small portion of my poetic writing process. This complicated endeavor would probably explain why I'm so exhausted when I'm finished with a piece. Maybe I'll turn this into something profound, someday. Something that rhymes and tells the truth more than any confession I could possibly make ever will.
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Psalm 19:14
No comments:
Post a Comment