Warning: Contents May Settle
Hi. I wrote sixteen poems this weekend. All of them were, like, a full page long. Mostly free verse, but I think one of them might make a good song. I wish I played an instrument. Then, I could be all, "Hey, I wrote a song." And then play it for someone... see what they think. Instead, I have to find someone who can write and play music and be like, "Hey, I wrote some lyrics." Only, then I'd have to hear what *they* thought. They wouldn't even be the audience. They'd be a conspirator. Or, uh, collaborator. Whatever.
Sometimes, my words come out wrong. That's why I like lacrosse.
This weekend, my mom and dad were in town, for once. Both of them, I mean. My dad took her out to dinner and she got sort of ...loose. It wasn't "drunk" so much as it was "loose." (Side note: "loose" vs. "tight" ...both expressions for being intoxicated, but both completely different moods. Word choice! Plus, it just seemed weird to describe Pam as "tight" ...although, I guess "loose" isn't much better.) It was sort of a bad night. My dad went to bed early. I think he has high blood pressure.
My tea mug smells like fish.
I've been thinking about what I'll do when I graduate. My dad said that he'd like me to find my own place, but Pam mom says she wants it to be close to dad's. Like, "in-law cottage" close. This makes me want to throw up. I don't know what to do. I hate making decisions. Seriously, if I could pay someone to just step in and be like, "Tony, you will live HERE. Tony, you will go to school THERE. Tony, here is a sweatshirt: WEAR IT!" ...everything would be fine.
Anyway, here's a poem. It's not the song. I'm too embarrassed to post that one.
A Verse for the Errant Knife
i know a beautiful lady
tied together with thin straps
she comes in crying, leaves bragging
about the control she breaks
is the control she takes
and i spin into a circle
cover my face with my hands
unravel the contents of my stomach
and wish she'd never been born
i wish i'd never been born
my hands on her face
her hands on my hands
her nails in my skin
my skin, unfolded and hung on the line
she exposes me to air and i crack
we don't ask for this to happen to us
but then we do and it does
something else takes over
we're slaves to what the world makes us
and i'm a slave to how she broke me
Sometimes, my words come out wrong. That's why I like lacrosse.
This weekend, my mom and dad were in town, for once. Both of them, I mean. My dad took her out to dinner and she got sort of ...loose. It wasn't "drunk" so much as it was "loose." (Side note: "loose" vs. "tight" ...both expressions for being intoxicated, but both completely different moods. Word choice! Plus, it just seemed weird to describe Pam as "tight" ...although, I guess "loose" isn't much better.) It was sort of a bad night. My dad went to bed early. I think he has high blood pressure.
My tea mug smells like fish.
I've been thinking about what I'll do when I graduate. My dad said that he'd like me to find my own place, but Pam mom says she wants it to be close to dad's. Like, "in-law cottage" close. This makes me want to throw up. I don't know what to do. I hate making decisions. Seriously, if I could pay someone to just step in and be like, "Tony, you will live HERE. Tony, you will go to school THERE. Tony, here is a sweatshirt: WEAR IT!" ...everything would be fine.
Anyway, here's a poem. It's not the song. I'm too embarrassed to post that one.
A Verse for the Errant Knife
i know a beautiful lady
tied together with thin straps
she comes in crying, leaves bragging
about the control she breaks
is the control she takes
and i spin into a circle
cover my face with my hands
unravel the contents of my stomach
and wish she'd never been born
i wish i'd never been born
my hands on her face
her hands on my hands
her nails in my skin
my skin, unfolded and hung on the line
she exposes me to air and i crack
we don't ask for this to happen to us
but then we do and it does
something else takes over
we're slaves to what the world makes us
and i'm a slave to how she broke me