Pretty Thing You Made Desert You
"That I pass out, forget your face, by the time I wake up."
I still feel so controlled by my own slight craziness. There's this inkling little thought in the back of my head that I'll never fall out of this emotion and the fallout it has potential to contain.
I wanted to write a poem as I was walking down the hallway and I wrote in my head as I walked. It actually rhymed in parts.
About walking down the stairs.
The tears blurring edges, blocking out sight.
And cold air hitting me at all sides. Freezing.
Stepping on concrete covered in fire, rust colored and frost bitten.
Flying licks of flame.
Catching in my hair and sliding over my face, eyes, mouth, nose.
Writing letters in the layers under my feet, cold.
Sitting, chest to knees and adjusting the edges, keeping myself warm.
Wanting to understand myself and erase faces, touches, voices, songs and moments from my memory. Rake them away and leave them on the ground.
To catch upon chilled breezes and grace soft faces, fleeting, and then they'd fly away.
Almost wished for it.
But I didn't write any of the words down.
I kept those to myself.
Restating them again, for no one in particular.
There is a smiley face cup on the table staring me in the face.
I need more waffles. and A day and a half 'til I get some Jill time again. Jill....
"If he is honest with himself, there is nothing especially poetic or beautiful about it. Just wet and vaguely boring. But the point is to make the poetry, the beauty. To invent it: something from nothing. To take something staid and dull and dreary and make it iconic and revolutionary. It’s quite the challenge, really, but he likes to think that the image of himself, drenched to the skin in what is so determinedly English weather, is a place to begin. He sits there for maybe twenty minutes until his fingers are red-raw and stiff, and sticks his tongue out at the carrier bag bustle of harried mothers clutching at their umbrella-handles. The beauty in the boredom, the boy writes scrappily, then draws a line through it and draws a picture of a man with wheels instead of feet." - Makes sense, I suppose.
I still feel so controlled by my own slight craziness. There's this inkling little thought in the back of my head that I'll never fall out of this emotion and the fallout it has potential to contain.
I wanted to write a poem as I was walking down the hallway and I wrote in my head as I walked. It actually rhymed in parts.
About walking down the stairs.
The tears blurring edges, blocking out sight.
And cold air hitting me at all sides. Freezing.
Stepping on concrete covered in fire, rust colored and frost bitten.
Flying licks of flame.
Catching in my hair and sliding over my face, eyes, mouth, nose.
Writing letters in the layers under my feet, cold.
Sitting, chest to knees and adjusting the edges, keeping myself warm.
Wanting to understand myself and erase faces, touches, voices, songs and moments from my memory. Rake them away and leave them on the ground.
To catch upon chilled breezes and grace soft faces, fleeting, and then they'd fly away.
Almost wished for it.
But I didn't write any of the words down.
I kept those to myself.
Restating them again, for no one in particular.
There is a smiley face cup on the table staring me in the face.
I need more waffles. and A day and a half 'til I get some Jill time again. Jill....
"If he is honest with himself, there is nothing especially poetic or beautiful about it. Just wet and vaguely boring. But the point is to make the poetry, the beauty. To invent it: something from nothing. To take something staid and dull and dreary and make it iconic and revolutionary. It’s quite the challenge, really, but he likes to think that the image of himself, drenched to the skin in what is so determinedly English weather, is a place to begin. He sits there for maybe twenty minutes until his fingers are red-raw and stiff, and sticks his tongue out at the carrier bag bustle of harried mothers clutching at their umbrella-handles. The beauty in the boredom, the boy writes scrappily, then draws a line through it and draws a picture of a man with wheels instead of feet." - Makes sense, I suppose.