The thunderstorm storms,
And the rocking-chair rocks.
And the town across the water is impoverished
Except there is no water,
There are only train tracks
Which were built on purpose –
Deliberately –
So that now there is a right side
And a wrong side.
All the after-school programs
In the world
Won’t help me recognize those children as my own.
I feel like forgetting
(In my fraught fear of freedom,)
That I cannot convey
My quite careless creation.
The words wear away
While I whisper “Why?”
And I decide to deduce
That the devil has danced
Along paths full of posies
And performed with precision.
I’m still so surprised
As I see the solution:
Guarding the gates
Gets me giddy and gone.
Roil, roil, scratch and toil,
Dig in deep and turn up soil.
Try, try, scratch and cry,
Dig in flesh and make blood fly.
Want, want, scratch and haunt,
Dig in soul and make cheeks gaunt.
Free, free, scratch and flee,
Dig in deep and turn up “Me.”
And if you sing tonight
While flying up to the ceiling,
Do you think that things will change?
And if you don’t speak
Instead of saying too much like you used to,
Do you think you should be proud?
And if you like both of them,
Tell them that they’re beautiful,
Do you think that they will love you more?
And if you lie in bed and think
All the thoughts that you push back during the day,
Do you think that they will go away?
And if, finally, you write about it,
Pour your heart out in a red notebook,
Do you think that years from now, you will remember what on earth you were talking about?
Dorothy, poetess supreme,
For you I long, of you I dream.
Parker, drinker, hostess, wit,
I find no adjective to fit.
Life was longer than you planned,
Death escaped your grasping hand.
You sure attempted suicide,
But never gained the other side.
Words on paper; black words on white paper, to be exact. Words, formed of letters, each individually meaningless shape coming together with others to create forms that the eye, or maybe the brain behind it, recognizes and understands. Words, meaningless things, really, when you get right down to it. Words are used to express every trite emotion in the book, every cliche of humanity. Words are nothing more than sounds rolling off the tongue, sticking between the teeth like bits of food that weren’t brushed out properly. Words are like phlegm, coming up the inner-tubing of the body and coughed out messily, loudly, sometimes violently. Words are just like any other bodily function – they serve their purpose, but they’re not to be discussed, not to be praised, not to be loved.
Of course, it isn’t so. If words are like food, they’re like the richest dessert, the most delicious cream-filled, frosted and glazed piece of chocolate cake that ever touched your pallet. If words are like bodily functions, then they’re like the satisfaction of a wide yawn, the comfort of a stretched muscle, the lulling sound of the pulse beating softly in the ears. If words are nothing more than sounds, then they’re like the sweetest music, the most poignant, the most touching of all pieces ever composed by man.
Words are never simply anything. They’re never simply, for they’re never simple. Words are mazes, sentences are labyrinths, paragraphs are cities and pages are countries – novels are entire universes, poetry galaxies.
In the wrong hands words can be dangerous. In the right ones, they can save lives. Falling from the right pens, words can change the world. Dripping from those poisonous ones they can destroy it.
Words on paper. Simply words, or rather words, complicatedly.
Not enough – that’s the thing.
Not enough of a personality.
Not enough of a joker.
Not enough of an adventurer.
Not enough of a drama-queen.
Too much also –
That’s the strange thing,
How there can be too much
That becomes part of inadequacy.
Too much of a ‘fraidy-cat.
Too much of a listener.
Too much of a pleaser.
Too much of a dullard.
Too much of a forgetful face.
Not enough and too much
of everything Important, it seems.
Disclaimer: I’m sorry, everyone, for being so emo and sappy over the holidays… I have a promise to myself never to erase any posts; otherwise, I’d erase this crappy poem. Instead, I’m adding this disclaimer.
Without,
Things are different.
The sky hasn’t fallen,
The planets orbit as usual,
Toddlers cry and children laugh,
Parents love and people die.
But things are still different,
Without.
Without,
Molehill fears become mountains,
Nasty insecurities become screaming flaws,
While outwardly things remain the same,
A mask making up for everything,
Without.
Without,
Experiences are private once more,
Sharing becomes hard work,
Terrors and nightmares rule the dark,
Loneliness is a natural state,
Without.
Without,
Is simply harder than with,
Is sadder than with,
Is a struggle worthy only of the word
Without.
Will you be weak first,
Or shall I?
It’s been a week, the first,
And I’m sorely tempted.
But maybe the weakness
Is in my mind and heart only.
Mother says it isn’t so,
And others say it too,
But my aching sore,
My blistering insides
Where someone came
And took something away-
That hole tells me it is.
Will you be weak first,
Or shall I?
A weak week it was,
Laughter stolen,
Soul broken,
Eyes bright in the glass.
But worry not, for weakness fades,
And strength gathers anew.
A week from now,
Where will you be?
Shall I be there too?
The cat sat on the bed.
The cat wanted to be fed.
It made eyes at its owner,
Who was a great loner,
And went to get food from the shed.
**
The cat sat on the couch.
Its owner was also a grouch.
When she wanted to share,
The cat thought “You dare?”
And the owner then screamed out an “Ouch!”
**
The cat sat on the floor.
The cat was very much bored.
The human tried to play,
But the cat ran away,
And played with an electrical cord.
**
The cat sits wherever it wants.
Every part of the house it haunts.
It owns the house,
From sofa to mouse,
And the human only gets taunts!
Slightly Ignorant 