a bad day poem.
February 28, 2013
i’m waking up.
hoping that i’m not in the same terrible mood i’ve been in off and on for the last few days. or the last week. i lost track.
i’m sick.
as i have been almost every moment of these last days while i watch my lactase enzymes float away into this bleak lactose intolerant future.
i’m tired.
evidently as i write this. i’m still tired. my dreams are gracing me with thoughts of nothing but failure.
i’m terrified.
of moving so far away in so little time. but the thought of staying here in a life i’ve nearly outgrown is scarier yet.
i’m hurt.
as i attempt to find words from someone i would like more from and realize how cold it feels to be purposefully put on the back burner.
[not even accidentally.
examined. pondered. purposefully.]
i’m typing.
at this moment and drinking my tear infused coffee, not sure that the end to this week is anywhere in sight.
i’m finding.
the clouds haven’t stopped suffocating the sun’s existence.
[and.]
i’m no most rested.
than when i closed my eyes yesternight.
i’m mentally recording.
every lovely thing that’s happening in this hopeless state of mind, so i can give them the appreciation they deserves whenever my exuberance returns.
[and for now.]
i’m going to drink more coffee.
pretend the sun in shining. and try to find the way to a better mood.
what it means to feel.
February 18, 2013
this morning, i found the words listed below amongst the scribbles of one of the few people i follow. this writer is a particular favorite of mine and the sentiment that he expressed in this poem illustrates a theme that often steals my mind.
i have read books. heard words. seen demonstrations. of the type of love that invades every aspect of ourselves.
it seeps into our bones and. for at least a portion of our moments. it resonates as the epitome of our world.
it’s intoxicating. beautiful. treacherous.
and it reminds us what it means to feel.
If there was anything other than you
I’d know it.
When walking down the street,
there are no clouds, no trees, no air.
I am not breathing. My heart is not beating.
The sidewalk has no cracks, the slushy wet snow does seep through my thin shoes.
The morning birds are not singing.
Cars do not rumble by as harried men search for the bouquets at the last minute.
Woman do not see me and I do not see them.
There is no noise, light, there is no dark.
There is only you.
And you are branded with every flavor I could taste in my waking hours,
Every scent lilting along the smog littered streets
every coy glance given and received
the crisp daylight streaming through the break in the overcast sky
the beeping trucks lifting snow
the children laughing somewhere down below an open window to the world
the sharp angles of elbows and phalanges cradle this sense in a person’s chest.
None of these things exist without the context,
of you.
every sunset follows every sunrise,
chasing the world around
looking for that place
I last saw you.
The pastel skies and cold river beds.
The boat dock sides and evergreen groves.
The skyscraper lines and country dell roads.
The cafe on Main and the in front of the flowercart on Second.
The parking esplanade and the robot spaceship.
You are none of those places;
I checked. You were gone.
But here, with me, inside this lulled heart,
a mini drumbeat sounds out the syllables of your name.
Nothing’s finer than the taste of this tortured heart.
for Everything exists by this dream of you.
…though the stars walk backward)
February 4, 2013
i was trying. for the last 18 minutes.
to describe a feeling i had a few moments ago. it was lovely. unexpected. and lived too briefly.
it reminded me of what it was to see.hear.smell.taste.feel someone’s heart.
but because everything i wrote- i deleted.
i thought i would just steal words for this one.
thanks e.e
__________________
dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at the wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for good likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neating each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.
it was a saturday.
January 25, 2013
in a couple of days, the five year anniversary of the most monumental event in my life will be upon us.
the most monumental event in a lot of people’s lives. actually.
and when i realized this and all the time that’s passed.
i didn’t actually feel one certain adjective.
but a compilation of those created by all the people that have come. gone. grown.
the circumstances that have changed
and the things that aren’t really different at all.
in the last five years. i have become a completely different person. and then reversed back to who i was.
i’ve experienced the best. and worst. moments of my life.
i loved in an unbearable way. in an obsessive way. in a sad way. in a disappointed way.
in the best way.
i’ve seen history unfold. repeat and regress.
i found a best friend. in my dog.
i’ve failed.
i’ve regretted.
i’ve lost everything.
and i’ve found a significant aspect of the world in that everything.
sometimes. it eliminates my compassion.
other times. it reminds me of how much i believe in the world.
and occasionally. it blinds me completely.
nearly five years ago. i received a phone call that i took sitting in the snow.
it was a saturday.
it started and ended in disbelief.
in the middle. the world as it is was found.
but even now:
i still miss you.
“‘The Birth of Feelings.’” Feelings are not as old as time, it began.
“Just as there was a first instant when someone rubbed two sticks together to make a spark, there was a first time joy was felt, and a first time for sadness. For a while, new feelings were invented all the time. Desire was born early, as was regret. When stubbornness was felt for the first time, it started a chain reaction, creating the feeling of resentment on the one hand, and alienation and loneliness on the other. It might have been a certain counterclockwise movement of the hips that marked the birth of ecstasy; a bolt of lighting that caused the first feeling of awe. Or maybe it was the body of a girl named Alma. Contrary to logic, the feeling of surprise wasn’t born immediately. It only came after people had enough time to get used to things as they were. And when enough time had passed, and someone felt the first feeling of surprise, someone, somewhere else, felt the first pang of nostalgia.
It’s also true that sometimes people felt things and, because there was no word for them, they went unmentioned. The oldest emotion in the world may be that of being moved; but to describe it–just to name it–must have been like trying to catch something invisible
(Then again, the oldest feeling in the world might simply have been confusion.)
Having begun to feel, people’s desire to feel grew. They wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. People became addicted to feeling. They struggled to uncover new emotions. It’s possible that this is how art was born. New kinds of joy were forged, along with new kinds of sadness: The eternal disappointment of life as it is; the relief of unexpected reprieve; the fear of dying.
Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist. There are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written, or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom, or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges, and absorbs the impact.”
notre hearts de feu
February 18, 2012
under your silent oui
i found myself
in the lost abyss
that has become my humble home.
but je must avouer
je suis the meurtre de fleur
whilst the resounding effort of all our us
crashes as we ourselves collide.
my shame of words once spoken
are tangled in our mess
that passion warms in volatile
whispered secrets
of nous.
lets equivocate
our every step.
mon amour.
as we believe in morrowed days
tes yeux capture my everything.
mais les promesses of my words
can never be unsaid.
my memories corrode this heart
an erratic jeu de fire
while we carry our twist of fate.
and with tethered solitude we slip
into notre hearts de feu.
of oui.
avec a wordless world
comme notre arène
tangled together.
February 7, 2012
sometimes.
your words remind me of a world more beautiful than i could imagine.
my breath catches and for just that moment, i lose everything.
while eyes and inevitabilities tangle my heart of certainties
its your syllables. your words. that twist anything ill ever hope to believe.
as the world keeps folding into seconds of creasing thoughts,
the illusional possibilities whisper their secrets
into the unstoppable wind of reality.
and its the words of this undoubtable collision
tangled together within themselves
that test those perimeters of truly and completely.
knotty lullaby.
January 24, 2012
my marriage
to the past
is ever nerving.
my sentiments
forever lost
and gone.
my tribute
to your memory
is breathing.
my lonely
cause of
misery, alive.
the song of
love once
wasted,
is a single.
my heart
still beats
this knotty
lullaby.
january 2011 [i think]
and pointed me home.
December 24, 2011
Years From Now
Although I cannot see your face
As you flip these poems awhile,
Somewhere from some far-off place
I hear you laughing–and I smile.
:shel silverstein
_____________________________
when i was little. i read shel silverstein. and although we’ll never really know why we became the way we did. why we are everything we are. i feel like his poems made me more like me.
for christmas, my grandparents gave me the last shel silverstein book. he died 12 years ago. but. this book just came out.
and as i read through the poems. i couldnt help but be reminded of every reason i loved him before. every rhyme and drawing. every bit of hope. and although his poems are often silly. in a large way they meant more to me than the extensive lavish and deep poems by others.
his words bring me back to a place that ill forever keep in my heart.
and for that, he’ll always have a small piece of me.
_____________________________
After
After the snowmelt and after the rain,
Out of the ground a hand came
And drew me a picture
And wrote me a poem
And touched my face gently
And pointed me home.
:shel silverstein
fire and ice.
December 22, 2011
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
:Robert Frost
