Thursday, 09 August 2012
Cryptic at best,
Cynical at my worst:
There’s no grey area,
No haze to lose yourself within—
No cloudy sky to steal your dreams.
There is only this composition,
And the composer sitting as her keyboard
Writing one more line, one more word,
Maybe one of which will finally have meaning.
The thing my work needs most
Is the thing my life is lacking the most:
I need a life lived in full,
Something more than simply staring at a full moon,
And trying to capture beauty in a few simple lines.
The thing my life needs the most
Is the thing my work is lacking the most:
I need a love like the movies,
Something more than watching couples from afar,
And trying to write their stories on perforated pages.
I write like I upchuck:
In sporadic phases—
I can feel it churning in my stomach.
It turns me sour for days
Before my body finally lets it go,
And when it goes it splatters the pages;
There’s no design,
No master plan,
Or preconceived notion,
There is only that feeling and what lingers
In the aftermath: the bitter taste upon my tongue.