(Poem) If I were to write a book
Have a poem. Was feeling rather maudlin, and then I remembered The Pie chapter of So No One Told You, and it inspired me.
So, to Kari Kurofai who helped me find an outlet for my currently still unidentifiable emotions, thank you.
This is my first poem since October 2012. Life had been rather difficult lately, emotionally and psychologically, that it has hampered my writing quantity and quality. This is the first time I was able to write something spontaneously and freely.
That said. Enjoy.
If I were to write a book
If I were to write
a book in love
the first chapter would be
how I first felt it
with my ma and pa
The second chapter would be
the crushes and the likes
that cute boy and his cute smile
but it would end there
and I can no longer remember his face
The third chapter would be harder
because I don't know
what it would be about anymore
Because suddenly
little in life makes sense
everything else is a puzzle
and slowly I realize
I am changing too fast
and I don't know what to do
until finally
when I start thinking about it
when the fog clears up
I already have my fourth chapter
written plainly in bold words
the feelings of affection
of fleeting happiness and senseless joy
of giddiness and excitement and exhilaration
and even when it plummets
when for a second I thought the world has ended
and there is so much bitterness choking me
I can move on and I do
And for a while
I stop writing that book
because I do not know what to write about
if this emptiness and this longing
this contentment and this satisfaction
this opportunity and this chance
if these should be written
should be spoken
should be acknowledged
because at this point
nothing - once again - makes sense
because suddenly and too quickly
life is changing again
and I am caught unaware, surprised
pulled the carpet off my feet
and I'm stumbling and plummeting face first
into a world where things move too fast
and people talk too fast
and everyone is chasing time
and thus this is where i put away that book
But if I were to publish this book
only a quarter would be written
and the rest is blank
for I can barely think of what to say
when you ask me what love is
when I cannot understand
this queer feeling I have
that bothers me day and night
that simple question of:
"What if?"
So, to Kari Kurofai who helped me find an outlet for my currently still unidentifiable emotions, thank you.
This is my first poem since October 2012. Life had been rather difficult lately, emotionally and psychologically, that it has hampered my writing quantity and quality. This is the first time I was able to write something spontaneously and freely.
That said. Enjoy.
If I were to write a book
If I were to write
a book in love
the first chapter would be
how I first felt it
with my ma and pa
The second chapter would be
the crushes and the likes
that cute boy and his cute smile
but it would end there
and I can no longer remember his face
The third chapter would be harder
because I don't know
what it would be about anymore
Because suddenly
little in life makes sense
everything else is a puzzle
and slowly I realize
I am changing too fast
and I don't know what to do
until finally
when I start thinking about it
when the fog clears up
I already have my fourth chapter
written plainly in bold words
the feelings of affection
of fleeting happiness and senseless joy
of giddiness and excitement and exhilaration
and even when it plummets
when for a second I thought the world has ended
and there is so much bitterness choking me
I can move on and I do
And for a while
I stop writing that book
because I do not know what to write about
if this emptiness and this longing
this contentment and this satisfaction
this opportunity and this chance
if these should be written
should be spoken
should be acknowledged
because at this point
nothing - once again - makes sense
because suddenly and too quickly
life is changing again
and I am caught unaware, surprised
pulled the carpet off my feet
and I'm stumbling and plummeting face first
into a world where things move too fast
and people talk too fast
and everyone is chasing time
and thus this is where i put away that book
But if I were to publish this book
only a quarter would be written
and the rest is blank
for I can barely think of what to say
when you ask me what love is
when I cannot understand
this queer feeling I have
that bothers me day and night
that simple question of:
"What if?"