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Toby Wallace Tries His Hand At Poetry (Ode to the Crazed Author)

Posted to Poetry




(note: this is an extension of sorts to two other pieces I've posted in "Stories" called "Crazed Authors" and "Toby Wallace: The College Years")
From the notebook of Toby Wallace:

Spending long years
Often in doubt
Longing
For what...?
Who knows the source of this emptiness
Yet the pen gives aid
In temporarily filling
The gaping void
That can be traced to childhood

Moodswings
No...
...it goes deeper than that
...More like erractic shifts
In one's entire view
Of life
love
philosophy
psychology

everything

Feelings of detachment
In a crowd of friends
A crazed author
Is still not free from loneliness

At this point one asks
Is it predestination
That being born with talent
Comes at this price
Or is this just me
Creating myself
As a character
In a novel
That I'm living

Insomnia
Restlessness
Absentmindness
Difficultly in social situations
Yet when a work is finished
-something that leaped onto paper
From some unknown orgin
(look at the way the words just came...during those times of writers block...when things seemed like they were going nowhere...almost like a miracle...like at times it wasn't me writing, but some kind of muse...or was it channeling...what lonely wasndering spirit chose me as a vehicle for the expression of what couldn't be said during earthly incarnation...or is this just me creating myself as a character in a novel that I'm living in)
I feel for a short period of time
That it's worth it

The booze, weed, speed...whatever helps get the wheels turning...or not turning...or turning and not turning in the right proportions

What do the people say
Behind my back?

What will they say when I'm dead?

And why can't I get laid?
What do the women see
In those lackeys
Who live life
Going through the motions
Or those testosterone freaks
Maybe things would be better
If I'd just sell out
Just a little
For a breif period of time
(But I've tries it...and failed...because there's always something inside that sabatoges my efforts...to join the flock...and be blissfully ignorant...My eyes are so wide open...it's sometimes {more than sometimes} painful)
Like that blonde I met at the bar
We talked for a bit
"Where'd you go to college?What was your major?Where's your hometown?...then interests...I talked about my work...Then she started losing intrest...said she had to go talk to a friend...I saw her twenty minutes later talking to some jerkoff guy who looked like he stepped out of a Gap ad.
-Maybe this is what God (or whatever force is behind the arrangement of events in the universe if any such thing exist and believe me there are times when that's a pretty big fuckin' "if") wants...for me to be consumed with sexual frustration...
Just so I can channel it into my work

What would it be like
To live as someone else?
I wonder...and always have wondered ever since I was in preschool, wondering why I was the only one to cry at least once a day for the first month
-But hey, that's probably why I aspired to be an author in the first place

That's something to ponder
Over a bottle of cheap vodka
The third one I've drank this week
And it's only Thursday

So many dumbfounding thoughts
Running through my mind
On this lonely night
I don't want to think anymore tonight
I better make it a liter
Hey, I still have some roman candles
Stashed in my closet
To set off in some random neighboorhood
An eccentric habit indeed
But it clears my head
And is an insane subsitute
For real sanity