This world has no place for genius. Artistry, love, beauty, creativity is warped and mangled like raw steel into financial gain and social profiteering. What happened to the traveling gypsies, the gleemen and the circus? A generation of lost souls is found in this mess of suits and ties and pumps marching head on like lemmings over the cliff to an end that is all too predictable. Education, Job, Marriage, Children, Retirement in Florida, and Death in a Mahogany Coffin 6 Feet Under with the Other Poor Souls trapped there with you. Me and Jimi’re going up somewhere else, somewhere that the fairy tales come true and dreams are waking memories. Nah, I don’t want a utopia, that’s an illusion, man. I want magic. The third-star-on-the-right-and–straight-on-until-morning *censored* that your mother packed into your head at night to shut you up and make you sleep. its only when you do sleep that you ever find this place. A few pockets of leftover magic from a time past and present in a parallel future all hidden in deep glorious caves of wonder guarded by flaming red swords and fake walls and Mr. SandMan’s sleepy, dusty, night beams. Creativity is just memories of a time, a place, a generation that wasn’t lost in the briar patch of reality, a muck of modernity that we find ourselves in now. I guess I’m just waiting for that next life to take me back, pull me free of this tar pit hell hole where a smile is a sneer and a friend is a foe. I pity those who don’t realize the beauty In the sand box: they are they only ones who know how to get back to that place, but no one believes them. Even I have trouble now. I get glimpses into the life I want to lead because its ‘right’ but a craving deep inside tells me that there’s more and I’m just not looking hard enough, taping the wrong vein; startling myself awake from the wrong dream.
The Term Paper on Sense Of Place In The Poetry Of Seamus Heaney And John Montague
... and that is because of the sense of place. The place at issue in the poem is not ... the land of the silence, the old ancestral places. Taking into consideration John Montagues words that the whole ... nature.This suggests that until every aspect of the place is seen as nearly mystical oneness, it will ... and will remain inarticulate. The man and the place are inseparably combined with each other, even though ...
I feel like I’m just sitting out on life, just watching the silly people go by, on their silly missions. But I can’t tell if I’m just being lazy and waiting for something to happen or if I’m dreaming a nightmare-ish existence in a Hell called Earth and when I do finally wake up again I’ll be back where I belong. “Click you heels three times, Dorothy and say, ‘There’s no place like home, ‘cause there’s no place like home, ‘cause there’s no place like home.’” I’ll meet you there, I guess, ‘cause I’m not sure what time my train’s coming in. And maybe, just maybe my place is real; but maybe its one that’s just a little bit higher than your own.
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dont censor me
