Confessional bland sinner; of the modern age.
As I take the sip of Evian (in a desperate attempt for better health...failer folks, failer)I look and see the potential opening to wreak my business onto the suspecting public.I'll put onions on their eyes, as I spill the not so secret beans.A desperate attack on the blog which was blantantly designed for shameless, unheeded writings of ones personal journey.
In words of sorrows, misjudgings, anticipation and sheer curiousness, I, the expressist carry out the prolonged attack on the reader.I write some shit and have a niggle of a feeling that you might...just...might relate to it.Oh wow...originality there, eh? Some form of sympathy wrapped as empathy because no one can ever really know how you really feel.They can regconise it but not empathise entirely cause similar means just that. It doesn't mean the same thing.Boredom was the reason that I am writing right now, I feel bored. Therefore I confess then call it 'poetry'
Am I too, guilty of the confessional poetry?Do I allude mysef then give the expressed jumbled mumbo to my friends or any Tom, Dick and Larry...
I'll give myself peace and this a poem. It will make me feel better.I cannot lie; this confessional does me wonders.Is this now a contradiction or will I allow it and say that the confessional poetry shall be left as being called poetry.Maybe the title is deserved because reading the sheer simplicity of someone else's thoughts is a valued fascination.
A confused, bland confessonalist. Help the dying keypad and my sore eyes....
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