I can’t poem any more, not for a while at least. I had a good run, but anything past twenty days of writing is too much for me. I’m done. I quit. Here’s a line from when I tried to pick up a pen this evening.
If I come off a bit loose to you, it’s only because somebody untied my knots.
This is my last NAPOWRIMO post. Generic blogging will commence in the future. Peace out, homies.
You ever write a poem, and you’re like, “damn, I didn’t realize I felt so strongly about this topic.”? But it’s like, all there, in the poem. Anyways, today’s excerpt is from one I wrote called Fever Dreams and it’s a love poem, I think. This excerpt isn’t too love-poem-y, though. It’s about a boy. I’m in love; I know I’m in love, I have been in love for a long time. And he’s finally mine.
I’m all push and no pull,
ghost peppers under my tongue,
flames licking at the part of me that fears
until I’m laughing
because it tickles
instead of burns.
Today’s going to be a good day. Tuesdays are always good. I have an easy class at 2, get to hang out with my man until 6, then I have poetry workshop!
For today’s poem, I adapted a small piece I’d written earlier into a slightly longer piece.
your chest a pit of hot sand for me to sink my feet into,
dry – they buried their madness inside of you
I have nine poems in a folder marked “Handle With Care.” I’m going to spend May going through them, and any more I might write that can go towards the folder, and seeing what I can do with them.
Back at school, homies. Here’s an excerpt from today’s writings.
may God bless the way
your glass cut my veins,
your flesh splintering
I’ve been awake since 5 o’clock in the fuckin’ morning so all I have for you is a complaint about that and a “Goodnight, y’all!”
the following accounts for NAPOWRIMO days 13, 14, 15, and 16:
Totally forgot to post yesterday. A lot has been going on. Anyways, I did do some writing, but not of the poetry form. I went back into the lines I wrote on Day Ten and they turned into a piece of short fiction, so, since it’s Easter weekend and I’m going to be hellz busy, I’m going to drop some of that here and then come back on Monday with new poetry stuff.
The sidewalk is uneven and never seems to end, and you keep stumbling across the spot in the road where Amy Berkovitz ran over Ed Sullivan’s dog in 2007 again and again, and it almost looks like the blood splatter is still there. The dog yelped once and then was silenced, and you remember because you were there, on your tricycle, your mother rushing up behind you to cover your eyes. It was the first time you’d ever seen anything die.
I’m going to master the second-person narrative if it kills me (it probably will).
I hope everyone has an extra special Easter weekend, even if you don’t celebrate it, in which case, have an extra special regular ass weekend.
Tonight’s poem isn’t a poem at all, but rather a premise for a poem. I’m starting to get burned out, and the month isn’t even half-way over. Anyways, another cynical piece on religion.
God has the sinners dance on His fingertips while He smears the hot wax across the skyline. While the lovers and the lonely alike look on in awe, this, we learn, is Hell.
I might go back into this thought later tonight, but for right now, all I want to do is stare at my ceiling and contemplate my life choices up until this point. I’m so very tired. Also, in conclusion, I feel like this thought would do well wedged in the middle of a poem. Someday.
For today’s poem, I worked out the kinks in a free write I did about some people I lived with in the psychiatric hospital during my freshman/sophomore years of high school. I’m turning it into a prose poem for my final workshop portfolio.
she’s lived in white rooms and has had no-blinking contests with low-cal, sugar-free jam, watched it wriggle on trays, avoided Ensure and the one hundred and first pound
I’ve never written a prose poem before, but I definitely noticed that when I tried to add line breaks to this particular piece, everything felt wrong. So, we’ll see how this mess goes.