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Open Poetry #9
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to say life was over would make me smile right now
| Open Poetry #9 |
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to say life was over would make me smile right now |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855
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i. for lack for lack of a better word i'm wriggling like a worm. for lack of a better night, i'm chewing on dry ice. for lack of a better need, i'm spitting out sunflower seeds. for lack of a better dream, i'm the ocean where it was the stream. i'm the ocean reflected in beams. i'm the ocean turned to steam. i'm a bleeding ocean of need. for lack of a better force, i'm trying to find the source. for lack of a better song, i'm a coal-black wrong. for lack of a better wish, i'm choking on the bones of fish. for lack of a better lock, i can't stop watching the clock. for lack of a better love, i wait to be given a shove. for lack of a better face, i search for a saving grace. i search for a canister of mace. i search for a loneless space. i'm searching for my place. ii. date your sister tried to burn my index finger with a match last night. i watched the slow, wary flame light up flecks of orange on my skin. i was too tired to move from the swaying, biting heat. i smiled; she smiled; the match trembled. i watched your sister try to burn my index finger with a match last night. i lay on the couch like a shriveled homecoming balloon. she sat on the floor by my head; an open matchbook and her roveless eyes. she smiled. i smiled. my finger burned. i watched your sister hold my hand in hers last night. she slowly moved the flame over the part of my hand that exceeded her hold. the light played off her milky, filed nails. my finger became a candle; i smiled; she grew scared. i held myself in as your sister lay crying on me last night. she blew out my finger, i slid off the couch. Late, long hair, sobbing person's weight. Her tears in my face. She asked me if it was too late. I said it's never too late. iii. correcting tape let me start over so i have a lover. so i have a cover so i don't smother. so i have a chance not to stumble in the dance. not to crumble at the chance. everything's askance. not to scream and cry and die when i no longer try to fly or flail or gasp or wail or just sit where i am and sigh. what's the point? what's the next step? my soul's made of correcting tape and there's no letters left. iv. dunno "reflect, remember reminisce, recall." these words are written on the inside of my left arm, in ink. in blood made with a gold pin. in strawberry vinegar. i don't want to remember anymore. my friends say it's not so bad, be happy, as if my sadness were a flea i could pick away, and in time, the itch would leave. they keep reminding me how good it is to be a person with expectations. they say these things as they sip their coffee with their husbands and wives. i'm sure they had pain in their lives, but they were able to hide it away. nobody understands what it means. so you can't relate? so you can't help? so you can't even hurt me anymore? i know there's beauty and reasons and such. but tonight it's all too much. tonight i just want a crutch. dead skin flakes in words past tense. i want to move ahead; in fact i am alone in disengaged sense. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Now here you have conveyed helpless hoplessness...and as JM says, oh you know I know...won't give ya the speech, except that you did it, you painted it, this is how it feels--detachment...very apt portrayal, haunting in its familiarity... |
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Rosebud1229 Senior Member
since 2000-04-05
Posts 1813North Carolina |
It's hard to respond to such sadness, but in your poem a madness that seems to be wanting more than words can say. Don't ever settle go for what your heart desires. Hope your day is especially wonderful! You brought out your inner man which is so hard at times for us to do. Great work here. |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
i watched your sister hold my hand in hers last night. she slowly moved the flame over the part of my hand that exceeded her hold. the light played off her milky, filed nails. my finger became a candle; i smiled; she grew scared. i held myself in as your sister lay crying on me last night. she blew out my finger, i slid off the couch. Late, long hair, sobbing person's weight. Her tears in my face. She asked me if it was too late. I said it's never too late. ============================ reflect, remember reminisce, recall." these words are written on the inside of my left arm, in ink. in blood made with a gold pin. in strawberry vinegar. i don't want to remember anymore. my friends say it's not so bad, be happy, as if my sadness were a flea i could pick away, and in time, the itch would leave. they keep reminding me how good it is to be a person with expectations. they say these things as they sip their coffee with their husbands and wives. i'm sure they had pain in their lives, but they were able to hide it away. nobody understands what it means. ========================= i know there's beauty and reasons and such. but tonight it's all too much. tonight i just want a crutch. dead skin flakes in words past tense. i want to move ahead; in fact i am alone in disengaged sense. ====================== i dont think i have any words to do this one justice ... the pain in this poem seems to have taken my words ... so I'll just say Im sorry baby. BS/JM |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
serenity, I've had a whirlwind few days. But this is where poetry helps me the most -- it's transcendent for me, as if I'm communicating with God. Thanks for your friendship.  Rosebud, I think we all feel this way sometimes. I just decided to acknowledge it instead of bury it. Thanks for reading. Butterfly Slippers, Hey, kiddo, what are you saying sorry for? It's nothing you did. Then you'd BETTER say sorry! j/kEverything's well enough, so don't worry too much. Mike |
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