“She is so small to me.
Like a footnote or a tiny distraction at the corner of my vision.
She is so important to me.
Like air and water and sleep I need her.”
-Found on a small, blue, stickie note
Category: poetry
Something old
“I have a pool. I don’t really know how to swim, but I am strangely drawn to it. I want to stand in it, sit in it, float in the warm waters at night. I want to invite someone over to wrinkle up in the water with me. I want to invite you to float by my side as the hours and our lives drift away together. Sometimes I just want to be with someone else; the company of another can mean so much. So often when I long to be with someone else it is you who comes to mind. Then I think of distance and time. I think of patience.”
-A page of a letter I never sent.
Things I had a craving for last night
Things I had a craving for last night:
Fresh Baked Banana Bread
Graham Crackers
Captain Crunch
Sara Poe
5.1.3.-2
“I’m biting my tongue and I’m holding my breath.
I’m counting the minutes as they tick towards death.
I’m on the verge of crying, but I don’t shed a tear.
This music reminds me that it’s you that’s not here.”
The way my room is set up right now, the distant, blank walls and half-finished paintings, the strange emptiness in the middle of the room that seems to ask for something to fill it without suggesting anything but awkwardness, the tiny bed in the far corner facing just so… If I let it, this room reminds me of the last bedroom I slept in before I moved out of my parents’ home. This room reminds me of the bedroom I cam home to after spending a week with my betrothed. It seems foreign; the other room, the one I am reminded of, was literally built and painted and my stuff put in it while I was out of town. I left the safety of my family and my home and my own room to venture out into the world and seek true love (I didn’t find it that week, only disappointment and the realization that I was not mature enough to handle an important relationship properly.) and when I returned averything was different. I was different because I had just learned of some of the many ways that what was wrong was about me and not about the other or the world. My family was different because they were beginning to see me as someone who would not always be around. The most visible change though, was my bedroom, which had been completely transformed. When I had left, my room was a mess, my possessions in haphazard, random piles all over the floor, one wall half gone in the beginnings of the construction that was going to take place, and the remaining walls full of the color and shape of my first murals. When I returned the entire shape of the room had changed; it was so much larger than it had been that the middle of it had become a strange emptiness that had nothing to fill it. All of my possessions had been put together on shelves or in drawers along the walls, and my tiny bed crouched in the far corner, facing just so. It felt foreign; this was not the room that I had left, and it never could be again.
this poem sux!
[post transcribed from a paper journal]
As I wipe the frozen tears from my eyes,
I remember the reason that I cried.
No reason at all; No who and no why.
I find that somehow there’s a tear in my eye.
Sometimes no feeling there is to be had,
My tears don’t depend on my happy or sad.
Psst…! this poem sux!
My brain seems to be bogged down with thoughts and ideas, and the part of my mind that does poetry seems to be getting the short end of the stick. Perhaps some other time would be better.