crap poetry, getting old

Today’s poem is mediocre at best. I felt incapable of putting some of the best words into it, ‘impacted’, ‘serial cable’, ‘toner’, to name a few. I ended up chopping a bunch off, and it didn’t have any real conclusion, so I tacked on those pathetic last two lines in some feeble effort to bring it all together.

I played City of Heroes all afternoon with about five other friends that I know locally. It was fun, but just now I found myself wondering if maybe I should have been spending that time writing… or at least reading a good book. I’m about a fourth of the way into Broken Angels, by Richard Morgan, and it’s pretty damn good so far. He does a great job with action and violence. Some of the more cinematic prose I’ve read lately, that’s for sure.

Just now I found myself thinking back to the beginning of this year, when I decided I wanted to challenge myself to read more. Time seems to have just slid by so fast since then. Does perception of time change as we get older? I’ve had dozens of conversations about this over the years, and most people seem to think it does. I think we just keep doing the same things over and over again our entire lives (more so as we “grow up” or anyway leave school) and after awhile, we stop noticing ourselves doing those things as we do them. So that a day’s work seems like nothing when you look back on it, even though at the time it was just as real as any other moment.

Time is one subjective motherfucker. It makes mincemeat of us all.

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