7/7/12

the best I can do (for now)


I'm really failing with words these days. It's bean months since I tried my hand at this damned poetry thing. I suck at it these days, when before there was a sprouting, now all that is left is some old dried out soil. I am beyond sad. But I have to keep trying.

Also, discovering all my most-loved poets committed suicide is rather disconcerting and devastating. :(

Here are some mangled words and phrases:


Life goes and goes and goes.

I wait.  For more to come,

For good feelings.

For a slew of restful sleep.

---

If it doesn't stop, you think of the ramifications.

Hands falling off, a slight cut in armor,

A lackadaisical hellbent worn-down toothache of the soul.

It won't stop until you're dead, that's the sick-slick thing.

And you face it in each wake and sleep moment. 

No matter. It exists and so do you and somehow you must live 

Together. 

---

I feel like my words are like brittle bones.

If you drown with this much brittle you float. 

It can't hold water, that's you, that's writing.

To be a strong boisterous boat, to say it from rooftops

With no holes in your sail, takes time and practice.

The thing is the talent left and that's sickening.

---

Peony, 

you are already out of season and I miss you terribly 

Though it has been one mere week.

Now to less tempting flowers. Yellow Pom-pom, sunflower,

And Freesia. 

Nothing is the same-difference without you.

Love, a broken hearted tear-drop peony loving girl.

---

The thing is (the sick thing, the thing that keeps you up nights),

Is the click-click-click-click of life. The clock-tock,

This undying dying feeling. I don't know, this living thing breaks

My heart, and yet I don't want to go, and I don't want to stay.

And mending brain, and my thickening waist reverberate with 

An intrepid emotion of floating, of exhaling, of running out of 

Air.

---

You think, you stutter. You end every which way. 

Your writing like an old mollusk. Near death,

Holding on in a thread-web of last resort.

Makes you feel ill, makes you want to give up

On hand and key and type-type-type.

Nothing comes out the way you like. 

I'm disappointed with the self I am and am becoming

And the way words fail me and the way I fail words.



1 comment:

  1. "And the way words fail me and the way I fail words."

    You don't fail words! I know what you mean though. and how you said you haven't been writing much poetry lately. Me neither. When I was 19 I feel like that was my best stuff. I was so fertile with writing! Now, not so much and I don't like any of it.

    I like this:
    "Peony,

    you are already out of season and I miss you terribly

    Though it has been one mere week.

    Now to less tempting flowers. Yellow Pom-pom, sunflower,

    And Freesia.

    Nothing is the same-difference without you.

    Love, a broken hearted tear-drop peony loving girl."

    ReplyDelete

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