|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| I can't say that I'm not a little bit angry, but that certainly isn't the foreground of my state as it surely would have been, and has been, in the past. I also can't say that I knew it was going to happen, that I was expecting it, because I wasn't. This was a thing I thought we had gotten past, something you did because you were young, because you were stupid. But it happened again, and you aren't young, and you aren't stupid. Which can only mean, then, that it is you -- it's just something that you do that you cannot and will not stop doing, no matter what the sacrifices or risks to be made. I can fight the superficial, the strongholds of immaturity, but I can not fight the nature of you, the very thing you are built of, because that would be a contradiction. You can't keep a cat shaved because you're allergic to its fur, you either take all of it or none of it, there is no compromising parts for the mere sake of your convenience. Being so, I will no longer ask you to change. I thought before your behavior was a stage, a misstep of conscience maybe, but if it continues after all these years, regardless of promises made or of attempts to reverse it, I see that perhaps it is not these things. And while I love you and wish to exercise this, I cannot accept these certain parts of who you are, because they are dangerous to me. I cannot hold myself in a place where illness is certain, because just as you cannot compromise parts of who you are, I cannot, and absolutely will not, compromise myself. And I'm sorry. | | |
| there is something which follows,
some odd rustling of the leaves,
taken up on small wind on a
windless day,
and i cease my boots marching,
to look round toward the plight,
as they drop, as they are innocent,
to the ground.
i have laid in on mornings, deep
in harrowing depths, darkness
of past beauty withered, a
torturous song,
when my head and my pillow,
and that on it rests,
without my intent, hath lifted short
heights, suspended, my confusion
held, until i surfaced anew, washed
of my blood. | | |
| I wrote this while sitting on a couch in the lounge room at Rutgers, which happens to house a Starbucks, which tortured the living shit out of me. So this poem is the product of PAIN and LONGING and GUT-WRENCHING DESIRE. Appreciate it.
whosoever sits
on her little throne of curses
dictating authority in my head
closing the blinds to the sun of reason
and sunblocking her dark skin white,
is a crazy bitch
who needs a bottle and a book
to pacify her tantrums
and distract her aimless fury
from all my softer parts
cause her rage is like a weedwhacker
through my grass plains of sense
and the dry reeds
that remaind, in their hayish messy piles,
upon the frailest little flicker
or a spark of discontent
have set ablaze;
and i am smoking now,
and charred,
and psycho cunt upstairs
teases her jungle hair
and laughs.
(If you're wondering why Starbucks causes pain and longing and all that shit I said up there, it's because, while I love the shit out of coffee, due to my retarded blood sugar levels, I can't drink it.)
| | |
| I do not know why I'm so affected by this. I found myself this morning in this weird daze, the kind where my eyes would fix on something and glaze over, ignoring the external for examination of the internal emptiness, scanning over the new dark spaces that had previously been filled with the excitement of newness and potential. I haven't felt it in a while, this peculiar sadness that is the debris left in the wake of something lost, like standing on the road as a car passes and leaves behind a cloud of dust. I realize, through my ability to reason, that this is not a saturated situation; I am sad now and in a week or so I will have forgotten all about it. But it is not the persons involved that bewilder me -- it is not who I lost, but that I feel, so fully, the feeling of loss itself. I have been in ephemeral relationships before, those unofficial, meaningless little adventures you go on when you're bored, and in their passing I am left unaffected, totally unscathed by the fall of once-suspended feelings. And whatever I do feel in these situations are merely surface-skimmed, usually a brief acknowledgement and perhaps a sigh, and nothing more is demonstrated in the way of remembrance or longing. But this most recent ending, I will without dignity admit, has stopped me short. It is doing to me what greater pains left from greater loves have done to me before, like diet soda to its sugary counterpart; a bit less taste and a bit more healthy. I can't say, however, that I regret anything. The fact that my current state of emotion has driven me to write is, in itself, an amazing thing. Like a snail that has been coaxed from it's shell, while I am vulnerable, I am also exposed to a new set of stimuli, prone to experience a new set of feelings. I feel not so cold, not so heartless; there is warmth in my hands and color in my naked lips. I've been penetrated, infiltrated, and the proof is in this expression, this admission, this ready and willing surrender of my hardness and my stolidity, my exterior display of resolute pride, and, most significantly, my monotony. | | |
| Here 's a far sterner story,
But like–oh, very like in its despair-
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts–losing at length her own. | | |
|
