It’s National Poetry Month, and as such I wanted to write about poetry. More specifically, I wanted to write poetry. There are a couple problems doing that on your blog, however. For one, if it’s a piece you may want to send out some day, you shouldn’t post it elsewhere. The second part of the problem is that you never really know when you’re going to want to polish something up and post it. Also, my current crap WordPress theme does not allow for my poetry to appear as I would like. So, what I’ve done here is chosen a few poems that were recently penned by me and have some sort of relation to the past week or so of my life. If I make the decision to rework them, I will remove them, and I formatted them as best as I could given my narrow theme selections. (Ps, all of the formatting on WordPress has changed, and I don’t like it.)
So, here’s three poems. Enjoy, and Happy Poetry Month.
In tight on a point of light/ somewhere in the darkness we create/ with black drapes and paint spills. Ghost light center stage/ a reminder or warning/ depending on your point of view/ depending on how long you’ve been/ scraping tar and feathers off the floor. Some people have disposable souls/ kept in their pockets like tissues for windy days. Others have masks they discard as the music moves them/ twirling to the edges of my perception. Quiet and watchful as always I/ notice these exceptions/ these disregards/ this lack of loyalty. The slap in my face was deserved; I know how much you took. My silent observations belie my hand/ and this heart disconnects from its fingers/ pouring blood where they used to be paint. I watch you sink, and frown. What a waste.
Unbreakable, my skin/ tough like Teflon but soft/ in places where light shines through/ I feel tissue-paper-thin as/ I bend in the wind. My arms like lead and my/ head on fire I remember when/ my skin gave way to/ prickles of blood on white and/ I felt my senses swirl away from me/ reaching for a steady hand/ when all that catches me / is air.
I want to write madly/ fingers flying over a keyboard as I / feel my senses bleed onto word documents but this darkness paralyzes me/ leaving me broken and bruised again. I lick my wounds and stare/ at my black behemoth of a computer that/ sits in judgement over / my lack of output. She shakes her head/ this ghost in the machine/ and scolds me for giving up, for taking time…I cringe. My heart is beating but my pulse/ is weak and I feel / lost somehow in the tangle of wires/ that connects me to the world outside. I want to sit on my throne and/ pen my words with the rapid fire click-clack of keys/ or the scratching and scrawling of pen on paper/ but I can’t raise my head toward the light. I can’t grip the pencil between my tired fingers. Instead I sit in shame while she judges me again/ laughing at my weakness like so many schoolchildren/ and I am left wanting once again.
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