I
She never wanted to be there, stale and sitting on your mother's wall,
pressing flowers in her hand and lips between her teeth.
Some things weren't meant to be understood,
and she supposed she was one of them. Timeless. Classic.
It was like tripping down rabbit holes on the way home from school,
stamping out love on the pavement,
memories of a sluggish rape and a screaming van.
Drunken nights, these brooding roads she never dared to cross
for fear she'd end up like the Other, the one love, the true love.
She wishes she could be gone from here, leaving a littering of ash
and feeling all the more pleased for it. Pleasure pleasure pleasure.
When she spoke now it was with a sweet and surprising trace of laughter
and when she felt she did not really feel.
It was terrible and confusing and delicious, like he had been
and was and was
and was.
II
"I fell from the highest cloud tonight.
When you hang like I hung you're no longer trapped
or conscious of the fact you move much clumsier
than the ribcage by your side.
That was why I let myself fall. To clense and to be free.
Purity and clarity, I clung to them,
yet obscurity beat with my heart like clever cartoons I watched
and shouldn't have found funny at such an old age.
I have turned into a liar.
I am a liar. No one I speak of are real, nor beautiful.
It is just a broken bone, a wish bone, a wish.
I have now wished too many times and it is nothing,
a lottery ticket, a hand in a hat, a lucky guess.
The chance of being and living and freedom.
One in a million, a cliche dream, a brilliant creature
never revealed."
Your mind is most intriguing. You are most passionate.
But most is not best and so I fear you,
I fear it.
I fear myself.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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I love your wording. Imagery, i've always loved that about your poems. You really should send them off you know...genius should be recognised, otherwise what's the point of wasted genius? I say 'genius' and i mean it, it's not contriving, me saying that, or 'omg' (you know what i mean). You really are fucking special. Which means you must also be as mad as a march hare, by default. That always follows - follows right into the poem and it's protagonist. I think this girl is mad...i sort of imagine her as a mute who stands out in the crows but at the same time she renders herself invisible. More of a scent than a person...something you can sense in the atmosphere but isn't quite there..you can't quite recall it. Fantasy world inhabitant. Nietzsche in exhile, perhaps.Why talk when you can think? When you an write? Why talk when there is really nothing to say?
I hope you're well.
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Thank you.
The girl in this was based on how I was feeling a month or so ago - just like you said, not feeling the need to talk, hanging back, standing out but trying to hide. You understood it perfecly. And thank you for your compliments, I think I'm going to follow your advice and send some of my stuff off somewhere.
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Provoking
Hmm. The first part is so different from the second, and I think I liked it the best. It seems I could close my eyes and be there inside it. I felt that this (the whole piece) was strangely open and honest, but so much of it is opaque to my eyes. I agree with Keikou - I desperately want to know.
I thought the title was splendid.
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Thank you very much. In fact, thank you for all your recent comments, I appreciate them a lot.
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I WANNA KNOW. >_<
But amazing poem.
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Thank you and what do you want to know? I'm so confused in my poor, hangover-ed head.
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