How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!The calm,Listen to your heartbeat. The silent muscle slowly pulsing. Imagine the dead line and the high pitched screech when someone falls toward the skies. Think of the delightful scent of a peach tree in the wind on a day in July. Imagine the song, the melody that played through your life. Hear it absorb itself into nothingness. Go into the nothingness, feel your body and mind without restraint. Draw a deep breath, let a gust into your lungs and let them expand. Breathe out, and let your shoulders slowly collapse. Feel every vein in your arms, feel the blood pulsing through your entire body. See the electricity flowing in your brain, and let it enlighten you. Let the bright glow out and shine upon you. Clear your mind for questions and worries. Just plunge into the very depths of light.
Whistle at the sky,In search of Elysian
the source of inspiration
my words are broken
Where is the simplicity
head on the rocks
be gone complicity
Inaudible melodies
beautifying fairy tales
reason underestimated
Unthinkable art
becomes breathtaking
stupidity specify deviance
With aching feet and tired minds,
the diversities of London crowded
in the subways and in the streets.
Confused tourists are filling the gaps,
the girls are carrying bags,
and everybody just wants to go home.
London, a place of misfortune for the simple,
a place of mischievousness, but a home nonetheless.
Everything included except time.
Gladly leaving for their own homes,
tired of rageous roads, honking horns,
they return to nothingness.
And with an empty heart and sad mind,
I sit here on my bed without answer,
and all I have is worries.
Untrusted, they took my Paris away
Those brown eyes are closed shut,
And the red colour of her hair is fading
I must abide, I have signed my death sentence,
And leave for London tonight
Filthy fingers, they took my Paris away
My wings have been cut off,
And I remain a saint, but I cannot fly
I have nothing left but time to wait,
And I wait, I wait for the switch to flip
A scourge, they took my Paris away
The sea is storming,
And I close my eyes
Your visage was lost in the London mist,
And I let go in a free fall toward the skies
It’s almost a plethora of blogs I have written on in the vast blogosphere, but I have yet to write successfully. With a future in writing in mind, I find my life doomed, but I’m optimistic. Not in the traditional sense where I delude myself with egocentric expectations of a overwhelming outcome of the next blog, rather that this time I will write for my own sake, and not for my peers and the miscellaneous eccentrics that will stumble upon my small scribbles.
I have written poetry for a few years, although a few years is a large part of my life. That fact scares me, more than anything else. In my opinion, creativity will fade as you get older. My writings has become much more refined, so much that I’m embarrassed of my earliest work, filled with love ballads and emotional cries to the world of my self-induced pain, but with no depth to it. Now, I only suffer from lack of inspiration, I rarely come upon beauty or ugliness that makes my fingers itch, a lust to put my thoughts into odd sentences that will, eventually, make up a piece of text describing a feeling, or something worth putting down onto sheets of paper for the history books.
I write under the pseudonym Ian Jade. This fictitious name was created during a French lesson I didn’t attend. As I had finished writing a poem Tæt Under Paraplyen (ENG: Close Under the Umbrella. Unfortunately not suited for this blog, as it is in Danish), I simply left “Ian Jade” as the signature.
As for poetry, I write usually skip between two styles. The first is small scribbles. I enjoy writing on One Word, and if I liked the result, I will post it here as well. There should be approximately six or seven short scribbles. Then there’s the usual, longer poems. They follow no specific rules, I decide how and if it rhymes, the length of each stanza.
