i was seven when i learned
to fear how hard the earth would be
if i fell
Today was a good day, but…
I have not quite burned down this house
let’s call it a coat that I have hung up in the summer months
a house feels too large
and too final a thing
and I fear that winter will find mind me
and I will be all to ready to drape myself in old sorrows.
Day 2- Write a poem that addresses at least one other poem and/or poet by name. You might imitate, parody, disagree with, champion, or generally respond to the other poem and poet.
I chose A Good Day by Kait Rokowski
always in the quiet hours (22 sept 2014)
at night i ask
when will i relearn to love myself
in the quiet hours
lessons i have yet to learn
(22 July 2014)
Things that start with
“maybe if I”
and end with
“then I will feel better’
rarely ever work.
Happiness will not come from someone else’s touch
there is nothing and noone
you can put in your mouth
or on your body
that can bring you joy.
27 april 2014
self-loathing:
i find myself
relieved when vile men can
still find this expanse of flesh
appetizing
Ethos
I always stay too late.
I am always the last to leave,
The one left to taste the soured wine
Passed in frantic effort
To regain the spirit,
Get burnt by the embers
Of hysterical bodies
Trying to rekindle the longspent fire.
Last to leave
And first to come off that high
Brought on by either ethers or ethos
First to sniff the stale smiles that linger
in the air
in the air
Long after the fleeting fancy
That brought them has left.
I always leave too late,
And as I totter home,
I am always emptier in the dying hours
Drained from the effort of trying to live.
Mania
I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight
Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical
And I love and I love
And I give and I give
Until like like a well loved toy
My skin is worn thin
And my entrails spill out from the seams.
And the pounding ratatatat tattoo
of my heart whipped into frenzy
is calmed by the panicked coda
of my hyperventilations.
We all have our lows.
Impotency
Stagnancy-bred frustration
Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t
What I didn’t do but could have.
Listlessness taints everything,
Even my rage is impotent.
Frustration
I’ve been feeling it so long
I’ve forgotten it’s name.
It comes and it goes,
Like the tide
With its ebbs and flows,
Like the moon
It waxes and wanes,
It is never really gone,
Just lingering behind sight,
Lulling with monotony
Like waves crashing
Against the shore,
Till I’m waist-deep
In despair, waiting
To cycle out.
Insomnia
They promised that insomnia
Would bring words
Like long awaited rain,
But instead it
Keeps you awake too late
With your distractions
And makes you miss your thoughts,
Then sleep long enough
For the days
To seem one.
Insomnia only brings
Diversions,
Frivolity
And agitation,
And when that
Wears you out,
A sleep too black
For thought to thrive.
Insomnia doesn’t bring rain;
It is the storm grey
Cloud that teases
And threatens,
Then flitters away
Whispering promises
To come another day.