Capable words

Some Sunday evening poetry. Since I'm not that busy. Always got time for a few lines. And I'm not absorbed in reading Harry Potter, seeing that I'm not even a fan of J.K.R (only of the films, because of the cast and characters) - yet I must say I admire the impact and influence which they right now and quite undeniably practise on the world as such. Dressed up-people queueing up and waiting impatiently and nailbitingly for weeks, because of one single novel and one exciting finalé. Pure magic. Purely fantastic. Especially because I do recognize that feeling. Whenever the next Gerard Butler-film comes out, I will most certainly by anticipating it and babbling about it and waiting for it for weeks. In fact, I already am. "P.S. I love you" coming up soon!! - remember? I'll attend the premiere and I'll hopefully be wearing a fan T-shirt, if I could only get it made sometime soon. Need someone to print it for me, and I need to choose a picture. One, amongst my - what - 2000 different shots of this man? Piece of cake, my ass, but definately a job that might turn out entertaining. Anyways, I understand the mania. And I respect it, fully, praising their enthusiasm and enjoying it a bit myself. Another possibility for all the best British actors to come together and make yet another fabulous film production of yet, yet another apparently brilliant story. Will be nice. Any opportunity to drool - never missed! Ah, the things we fangirls may look forward to. Here's something...strange:

"Capability completely"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, very very sad but true. With thanks to Karl Over Knausgård whom I read at the moment, and whose unpleasant but poetic writings inspire me in all their destructive thoughtfullness. Showing that easy can be hard, no matter how, it's simply a case of how you decide to look at it. And deal with it. For how to interpret all these opinions given by the ones around us, when they can hold so many different and opposing meanings? Pretty dangerous; these our most lethal weapons; which (quite simply) must be the very words we choose - wisely ot not - to utter.

you're grasping for straws, longing for a greeting
and trying to find a friend in every initiative
some mutual appreciation, if only, and thus
behind every initiated conversation, every fond hello,
every other signalled courtesy and faltering bye-bye
there's a hope of continuation offered to one yearning
willing to accept almost nothing to be surely something
like any assumed attempt of being polite, always returned,
as being favours, desperate answers to all the piling mail
whatever does it mean, is of no concern if you're pleased
knowing feedback measures up to fullness when repeated
still, cannot bear to breathe while the heart grows empty
the power of the air goes deeper than what is mistaken
for a supplement of good and wonderful and mental food
nourishment for times between which the refilling is scarce
it takes too long, sometimes, the expectations lessen
then little is esteemed to count for more, relied on further
until the sustenance comes clear, which outs, the weight is gone
and love becomes of loss so much the state of mind is ending