Guts and Globes

I am going to have to write Solitude from scratch. The idea of this both intrigues me and scares the shit out of me. More the latter than the former. That sentence was so unnecessary. It scares me because of the emotion and inspiration I need to complete it. Do I want it to be just straight poetry? No, because it’s being penned as a poetry novel.

Poetry novel? The hell that is?

How much of myself do I want to put into this book and how much do I want to deliver a point?

What’s the point?

The message.

All new material? Can I do it? Will it be good? Will people understand? Does anyone ever understand? Here we go.

I want it to go from a crowded, distracted, impulsive selfishness to a singular, attempt at individuality.

Advantageous, at best.

Big ideas…follow-thru?

Super Hero

The dream I had last night has dwindled itself down to flashes of scenes. I remember being in a factory of somesort with people who I cannot pinpoint their faces but the emotion I had for them is still heavy. A year 3000 version of Freddy was chasing us. It was my responsibility to ensure our safety. Noone appointed me that position but that was my position. I had to protect everyone. I had to get us to safety. I had to get us through the terror. This isn’t a conscious thought. I can’t save myself. What in the hell makes my inside self think I can always be the hero?