Something comes over me...
On days like today when I do well on something. It's like a calm before the storm, a feeling of impending mediocrity. It's always such an emotional shock for me when I go from great to o.k., which is probably why I have, even after I experience something amazing, a feeling in the center of my stomach and behind my chest that is of tightening. I can't experience something great without the full fear of what comes afterwards. Am I just paranoid? Because it always seems like the good and bad balance out likewise. Very good -> Very bad. I don't know, I hope it is different this time.
I always get sentimental when reading Sylvia Plath. Her writing style is so forlorn, and I realize how much she and I have in common the more I read.. except her focus on sex and her taste in men. It makes me wonder, though, how different things would be had I been born in her age, or had she been born in mine. I really want to see the Sylvia Plath movie, can't find it online anywhere though. Let me know if you run across it!
I wrote this poem after writing an essay on poetry all night with no sleep in hopes that if i write about how crappy procrastination is in the end, I'll stop myself. Don't know if it'll work, but worth a shot. By the way, it's supposed to be silly.
No Name
I hate returning to the place,
I sat up writing words in haste;
Trying to fix my form all night,
A torrent whirl of pain and strife;
To put my thought on to thee, comp,
And add and 'tract all petty pomp,
I cry 'When will I be set free
from chains of rhymes and misery?
For what foul deed did I commit,
To deserve such a lack of wit
And shallow short-term memory?
I knew what'would become of me.'
In grave despair til noon I sat,
Yet still my nouns and verbs rang flat,
Until three thousand words did meet,
And even bibliography.
My chore was done but mem'ries still
As fresh as poison berries spill
Into my mind, no rest and stale,
My skin a jaundice, but more pale
Then like an hour'd glass, blood 'turns
The mem'ries of my nightmare burn;
Melting away the evidence
and hide in unclear conscience.
I always get sentimental when reading Sylvia Plath. Her writing style is so forlorn, and I realize how much she and I have in common the more I read.. except her focus on sex and her taste in men. It makes me wonder, though, how different things would be had I been born in her age, or had she been born in mine. I really want to see the Sylvia Plath movie, can't find it online anywhere though. Let me know if you run across it!
I wrote this poem after writing an essay on poetry all night with no sleep in hopes that if i write about how crappy procrastination is in the end, I'll stop myself. Don't know if it'll work, but worth a shot. By the way, it's supposed to be silly.
No Name
I hate returning to the place,
I sat up writing words in haste;
Trying to fix my form all night,
A torrent whirl of pain and strife;
To put my thought on to thee, comp,
And add and 'tract all petty pomp,
I cry 'When will I be set free
from chains of rhymes and misery?
For what foul deed did I commit,
To deserve such a lack of wit
And shallow short-term memory?
I knew what'would become of me.'
In grave despair til noon I sat,
Yet still my nouns and verbs rang flat,
Until three thousand words did meet,
And even bibliography.
My chore was done but mem'ries still
As fresh as poison berries spill
Into my mind, no rest and stale,
My skin a jaundice, but more pale
Then like an hour'd glass, blood 'turns
The mem'ries of my nightmare burn;
Melting away the evidence
and hide in unclear conscience.