Original Poetry
Title: Various
Rating: PG-R
Type: Original, poetry
Author's Note: Going through my notebooks, I found one poem written in February from the past several years. I was trying to assess if my voice had changed, my way of writing. I know it has drastically changed in stories, but I don't know about in poetry. I write fairly colliquial in my poetry, nothing overly crazy. I thought I'd share with you since this is my writing journal. Feel free to comment.
Purposefully Untitled
he walked through the front door
and forgot to shut it behind him
because he was running to catch the bus
for the first day of school
and the teachers laughed at his questions
because he was a forward little kid
and he swung on the swings at recess
until the girl from next door came to play
and he’d run away
to play jacks with the other boys
he walked through the front door
and carefully closed it behind him
because his carpool was waiting
to take him to football practice
before school since his mother was
too busy sleeping
and his teachers looked at him suspiciously
because he just had that look
and he sat on the swings after school
when he didn’t want to go home
until the girl next door came over
and he’d run away to go and think alone
he walked through the front door
and closed it behind him with a bang
and he ran all the way to school
and came to class late
and his teacher frowned and handed him detention
but he didn’t care and he didn’t go
and he went to the swings to night
until the girl next door came
and he looked at her and wondered what she thought
and he came home past curfew
but his mother didn’t notice
because she was too busy sleeping
he walked through the front door
and left it open for his mother to run after him
and yell at him for skipping school
and quitting football
and he’d tell her that was years ago
but she didn’t run - she never did anymore -
because she was too busy sleeping
and his boss smiled at his persistence
to do a good job
but wouldn’t give him a raise
and he’d pass the swings on his walk home
and spit on the ground in front of them
until the girl next door came up to him
and they’d run away together
to smoke cigarettes and fuck
he walked through the front door
and slammed it behind him for emphasis
that this would be the last time
with everything inside in boxes and ghosts
looming overhead
and his mother wasn’t too busy sleeping
to haunt his head
and his new boss had to let him go
without looking him in the face
so he went to the swings and swung
like he did when he was a child
before his mother slept all day and before
he knew the real world
until the girl next door told him
that none of it mattered and let him smoke
and they ran away together
to leave everything behind
A Bit of Nothing
the wind blew her hair
across her face
and it stuck to her lipstick.
it was one of those things
she ignored
like the mysterious carpet stain
that everyone blamed
on the dog
so now it was never mentioned.
the air felt good,
cool,
consistent,
even though it was making tangles of her hair.
the wind wasn’t the breath of God
or the rush of new life;
it was only moving air,
always invisible no matter how much
she wanted to reach out and touch it.
after the wind would be the rain;
that wouldn’t matter either.
the rain wouldn’t be a
new baptism
or representative of her inner tears.
it would make her bangs
stick
to her forehead
and her t-shirt to her back.
it would just be rain,
just as the wind was only wind.
when the rain would stop,
the steam would rise
from the black pavement
in warm swirls, curling around
her soaked body.
but that wouldn’t mean anything
either.
it wouldn’t be hot anger
rising from inside her
or wisps of fogged beauty
disappearing too soon.
because sometimes things are
nothing.
because poetry isn’t always laced with
depth.
because sometimes you have to
stand in the rain
when you forget your keys.
Infatuation
When he kissed her
his mouth tasted like Listerine
and unfiltered cigarettes,
the smoky taste soaking into her gums,
his tongue thick in her mouth,
rough like sandpaper,
but wanted like an addiction.
Tattoos painted his skin black
and green
but he was a secret
so she made up stories about the art
inside her head
while his fingers drew shapes across her stomach
in invisible lines.
Their story was a history
written in dripping tears and beaded sweat,
her Self in fallen pieces
on the floor
like the crisp brown petals of roses he once gave her
that she couldn’t bring herself to throw away.
She kept a crucifix under her pillow,
between the slick silk
of her hundred dollar sheets,
and touched the cold metal
before she fell asleep,
asking to be cured of the obsession
but knowing it was wasted breath.
He lived on the corner of Nowhere Street
and Wandering Way,
his sports car filled with
grease-soaked bags of left over McDonald’s
littering the floorboards that he
throws out the window while going eighty,
not wearing his seatbelt.
She was not fast-food
or second-hand smoke.
She was not quiet brooding, slights or insults.
She was anything but
and sometimes she wanted roses on a Monday
for no reason at all.
Life by Drowning
there is an intake of breath,
a gasp of disbelief.
looking in the water, like a mirror,
you notice the ripples over your face
hiding your blemishes
or perhaps making new ones.
memories line your flesh,
something you haven’t seen in years.
wrinkles about the mouth -
not from laughter, the curling of lips,
but today from the absence of emotion.
your mouth is a straight line
when frowning takes too much energy to form.
crinkled skin at the corners of your eyes,
from being slammed shut against the day
in hope for dreams.
lines like straits down your cheeks -
waterways for tears that once stained your face.
the wrinkles are imbedded in your skin,
rough and jagged like crumpled-up paper
attempting to be stretched smooth.
none of that matters in the water mirror
for it is enticing, like pollen to a bee,
like you to repugnant men
and the drowning in it is not like real drowning at all.
back there behind your shoulder -
your house, your home -
the sink that is never empty
the floor that is never clean
the bed that is never peaceful
those things - everything - are your drowning.
the water that now fills your lungs is like oxygen
like breathing
like the answer
like life
and when they say you left without a goodbye
it wasn’t because you forgot.
A/N: Congrats if you made it through all four. The last poem was inspired by a book I just read about a family line of abusive parents - always the daughters finding husbands with outrageous tempers. The author is really fantastic and I admire what he's written - breaching tough subjects. My favorite is the last one. I'm really angsty in my writing, aren't I? Cheers!
As always, links to all my fics (divided up by pairings) can be found here: Click Me
Rating: PG-R
Type: Original, poetry
Author's Note: Going through my notebooks, I found one poem written in February from the past several years. I was trying to assess if my voice had changed, my way of writing. I know it has drastically changed in stories, but I don't know about in poetry. I write fairly colliquial in my poetry, nothing overly crazy. I thought I'd share with you since this is my writing journal. Feel free to comment.
Purposefully Untitled
he walked through the front door
and forgot to shut it behind him
because he was running to catch the bus
for the first day of school
and the teachers laughed at his questions
because he was a forward little kid
and he swung on the swings at recess
until the girl from next door came to play
and he’d run away
to play jacks with the other boys
he walked through the front door
and carefully closed it behind him
because his carpool was waiting
to take him to football practice
before school since his mother was
too busy sleeping
and his teachers looked at him suspiciously
because he just had that look
and he sat on the swings after school
when he didn’t want to go home
until the girl next door came over
and he’d run away to go and think alone
he walked through the front door
and closed it behind him with a bang
and he ran all the way to school
and came to class late
and his teacher frowned and handed him detention
but he didn’t care and he didn’t go
and he went to the swings to night
until the girl next door came
and he looked at her and wondered what she thought
and he came home past curfew
but his mother didn’t notice
because she was too busy sleeping
he walked through the front door
and left it open for his mother to run after him
and yell at him for skipping school
and quitting football
and he’d tell her that was years ago
but she didn’t run - she never did anymore -
because she was too busy sleeping
and his boss smiled at his persistence
to do a good job
but wouldn’t give him a raise
and he’d pass the swings on his walk home
and spit on the ground in front of them
until the girl next door came up to him
and they’d run away together
to smoke cigarettes and fuck
he walked through the front door
and slammed it behind him for emphasis
that this would be the last time
with everything inside in boxes and ghosts
looming overhead
and his mother wasn’t too busy sleeping
to haunt his head
and his new boss had to let him go
without looking him in the face
so he went to the swings and swung
like he did when he was a child
before his mother slept all day and before
he knew the real world
until the girl next door told him
that none of it mattered and let him smoke
and they ran away together
to leave everything behind
A Bit of Nothing
the wind blew her hair
across her face
and it stuck to her lipstick.
it was one of those things
she ignored
like the mysterious carpet stain
that everyone blamed
on the dog
so now it was never mentioned.
the air felt good,
cool,
consistent,
even though it was making tangles of her hair.
the wind wasn’t the breath of God
or the rush of new life;
it was only moving air,
always invisible no matter how much
she wanted to reach out and touch it.
after the wind would be the rain;
that wouldn’t matter either.
the rain wouldn’t be a
new baptism
or representative of her inner tears.
it would make her bangs
stick
to her forehead
and her t-shirt to her back.
it would just be rain,
just as the wind was only wind.
when the rain would stop,
the steam would rise
from the black pavement
in warm swirls, curling around
her soaked body.
but that wouldn’t mean anything
either.
it wouldn’t be hot anger
rising from inside her
or wisps of fogged beauty
disappearing too soon.
because sometimes things are
nothing.
because poetry isn’t always laced with
depth.
because sometimes you have to
stand in the rain
when you forget your keys.
Infatuation
When he kissed her
his mouth tasted like Listerine
and unfiltered cigarettes,
the smoky taste soaking into her gums,
his tongue thick in her mouth,
rough like sandpaper,
but wanted like an addiction.
Tattoos painted his skin black
and green
but he was a secret
so she made up stories about the art
inside her head
while his fingers drew shapes across her stomach
in invisible lines.
Their story was a history
written in dripping tears and beaded sweat,
her Self in fallen pieces
on the floor
like the crisp brown petals of roses he once gave her
that she couldn’t bring herself to throw away.
She kept a crucifix under her pillow,
between the slick silk
of her hundred dollar sheets,
and touched the cold metal
before she fell asleep,
asking to be cured of the obsession
but knowing it was wasted breath.
He lived on the corner of Nowhere Street
and Wandering Way,
his sports car filled with
grease-soaked bags of left over McDonald’s
littering the floorboards that he
throws out the window while going eighty,
not wearing his seatbelt.
She was not fast-food
or second-hand smoke.
She was not quiet brooding, slights or insults.
She was anything but
and sometimes she wanted roses on a Monday
for no reason at all.
Life by Drowning
there is an intake of breath,
a gasp of disbelief.
looking in the water, like a mirror,
you notice the ripples over your face
hiding your blemishes
or perhaps making new ones.
memories line your flesh,
something you haven’t seen in years.
wrinkles about the mouth -
not from laughter, the curling of lips,
but today from the absence of emotion.
your mouth is a straight line
when frowning takes too much energy to form.
crinkled skin at the corners of your eyes,
from being slammed shut against the day
in hope for dreams.
lines like straits down your cheeks -
waterways for tears that once stained your face.
the wrinkles are imbedded in your skin,
rough and jagged like crumpled-up paper
attempting to be stretched smooth.
none of that matters in the water mirror
for it is enticing, like pollen to a bee,
like you to repugnant men
and the drowning in it is not like real drowning at all.
back there behind your shoulder -
your house, your home -
the sink that is never empty
the floor that is never clean
the bed that is never peaceful
those things - everything - are your drowning.
the water that now fills your lungs is like oxygen
like breathing
like the answer
like life
and when they say you left without a goodbye
it wasn’t because you forgot.
A/N: Congrats if you made it through all four. The last poem was inspired by a book I just read about a family line of abusive parents - always the daughters finding husbands with outrageous tempers. The author is really fantastic and I admire what he's written - breaching tough subjects. My favorite is the last one. I'm really angsty in my writing, aren't I? Cheers!
As always, links to all my fics (divided up by pairings) can be found here: Click Me