I sat
down
intentionally
to capture
the flow of a voice
the caboose of a thought
a shade of uncomforbility
pale or flush
I got
up
instinctively
to chase it around the room
stumbling over
bedposts and pens
as its mocking bird
evaded grasps
So I scribbled
the fists full of empty
rage
and put together
a quilt with
the only fragments and letters I knew of,
Wishing that in their place
was the line
the word
the sound that heard
them all home leaking
tiny droplets of oceans.
The Perfect Storm
sucking
swallowing
Black holes
worm holes
mole holes are all constructed
blindly
because their creators do not see
if their impact will cause mountains.
It does not envision a masterpiece
for all its creations.
It just is
it is in its nature
it is compelled
as I am too...
So here I fall
into that conundrum
unknowing
whether I could or if I should
care
whether to strike a match of your
interest or
capture against its will,
a free moment
or if
you would just blank nod, apathetically smile, and
try to silence
the crickets playing a symphony in your head.
Because if all I create are symphonic insects,
isn't that beautiful enough?
I had a dream that the only parts of my life which really existed were all the words I'd ever written, and that everything else was imagination of what could have been. It was a weird dream; I got caught up for a long while in a bunch of essays I had written in 11th grade.
ReplyDeleteI liked your poem; I get the image of you chasing your pen around the room. Don't be a slave to art.