Some of us have to go to sleep and then
Get up in the morning to go to work.
Rinse.Repeat.
Your day is a carbon copy of my time spent
Crossing paths with serial killers along the Mirimachi.
I want to go home daddy, take me to where we made
Syrup in the hills right outside of Woodstock.
The strawberry patch is dead,
So is Aunt Jennie and my will to survive.
Taunting, the coastal air invades my nostrils
While I slave at a nine hour day. I never liked seafood
But I miss the fishermen with their beer and accents
Only understandable by other fisherman with beer.
We sang Irish drinking songs in Halifax.
I remember driving four hours to P.E.I for
Ice cream on a Sunday when the temperature didn't
Make you want to commit suicide in the Atlantic.
I panicked
Hitchhiking my way back to bigger cities with
Small town dreams and my naive personality
Tucked safely in the pocket of my summer washed jeans.
No matter how much I try, I can't get them that clean anymore.
They represent my wasted childhood
Planting dill in grandpa's backyard
I smelled of dirt,
but I was content.
I don't remember what being okay feels like anymore.
Author notes
There will most likely be several more.
From The Vault To Your Eye Sockets
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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ohh... to see your heart presented in such a way... it skips randomly but paints the mural I think you hoped for... I anticipate the next installments...
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This is good, too.
Your voice is consistent, clear and your perspective feels solid.
The way your detail feeds authenticity and builds unique images delights me: " ... the fishermen with their beer and accents
Only understandable by other fisherman with beer."
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Whenever i read these it makes me want to scream. "BLAME CANADA!"
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"No matter how much I try, I can't them clean anymore."
Beautiful imagery in your poem here my friend. I really like the "small town dreams" bit. Insightful and strongly filled with pictures.
Warmest,
Mylee -
perfect
you're too fucking good.
i must stop reading now so as not to off myself in a fit of depression, before i hack my way through another attempt at writing something so totally subhuman compared to this honest, clever and direct piece.
"with Small town dreams and my naive personality
Tucked safely in the pocket of my summer washed jeans"
rock on.
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I am afraid I have no experience of Halifax (either the Nova Scotia one or the West Yorkshire one) although I have met someone who used to masturbate in the suburbs of Halifax (in Yorkshire). Jolly nice poem.
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Again.
"I smelled of dirt, but I was content."
The way this makes me feel is indescribable.
God.
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