Sleep, when difficult to master, is a patient
process. A stroll in the middle of the night.
Cold, drenched, hands buried in pockets, legs
restlessly pressing on. It's been raining for I don't know how long.
Weeks, months. Nothing dries. The sun is in hiding.
I pine away for beaches, hot August winds, blinding sunshine;
scream at you, and you hurl bed contents at me;
we're all miserable.
We're a neighborhood of walkers, tired of dirt roads
winding to arbitrary destinations, melting to sludge
when it storms, sticking to our shoes and
invading our homes
as slimy, grassy smears stomping about our tile floors.
But the city doesn't care because
we're a neighborhood too poor for carpets, carpet steamers.
Our walls bleed and flake, helpless,
as the angry sky pounds down on us.
All this rain -
all this goddamn rain -
makes me soggy and mean.
Tumbles down trees and rattles in gutters,
hobbles over potholes and plashes upon puddles,
ping-ponging my thoughts all over the place.
It only sounds like chaos, though.
Actually, the world is still,
quiet and calm,
though the mist is fogging my glasses
and all I can see are
massive streetlight fireballs
coming at me through the haze.
Author notes
If you're having trouble seeing the font against the background:
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Comments
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I agree with the person below that the dark background and the dark font makes it hard for the reader to connect to the words. I like your style, the poem was well written my only problem with it is the way that you write a line and snap it in half and continue it into the next line. Makes an irregular pulse for me.
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I really enjoyed the creativity of this piece... but just one tip.. The font is dark on the background... Other than that, this piece was crafted with skill ;-)
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I like this one.
I can definitely relate to the first part
sleep, when difficult to master, is a patient
process. Hands buried in pockets.
However, that is when I do my writing. I love that nautical twilight, as a friend once described it. I especially like it when it's raining. I'm not sure what you mean by "We're a neighborhood of walkers". Perhaps, I'll need to read again. I like the imagery. I just need to get a hold of it.
It's a good, thought-provoking piece.
Marcia
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I grew up in a small, fairly rich town (less rich places, like my parents' street, are nice, clean and safe; more rich places, in exclusive pockets of the town, are small mansions that are like works of art you can live in and million-dollar homes with enviable amenities like home theatres, butler pantries and four-car garages). Driving from one end of the town to the other takes less than five minutes, unless you're winding through certain neighborhoods. On one side of town is a smaller, even richer town (where the Jonas brothers reportedly bought a home - no lie) and on the other side is a town that's equally safe and pretty much just as clean but is notably poorer (this town contains the post office used by all three). Houses are smaller and look kind of run-down, paint's flaking off their sides, and there are two trailer parks. My boyfriend and I live in the trailer park situated kind of between the poorer town and my parents' nicer town, which is more a hodge-podge neighborhood of trailers, little shanty houses that are falling apart, and like two sturdy brick houses.
"We're a neighborhood of walkers" means, basically, that everyone here is frustrated as well.
Sorry that explanation turned out so long. And thank you so much for your kind words!
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