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