I've tried to revisit and revise some of the older poems I wrote.
The problem lies in the feeling I suppose.
I no longer feel what they are, or what they're about.
I can logically say what they are, and what they're about,
but I realize after just how much I don't connect with them.
It is rare where I "judge" a poem to be worth revisiting,
and I suppose it can only be so when I grow fond of the poem
and what it means to me. With my current inept (although improving) ability
for poetry, I will be unlikely to revisit old poems, choosing instead to
abandon them altogether, and move on learning from the mistakes I made.
In essence, I drain myself of all the muck and try to chug out something better.
No sense in polishing muck, unless you want to keep it.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Abrupt
You can have the satisfaction you crave,
that hungering need for fulfillment
that unquenchable bite in your throat.
What you learn will be silk against neck,
drink rolling down a baron stomach,
the simple "pop" of bubble wrap.
Bite into an orange peel
the bitter will satisfy more than this.
that hungering need for fulfillment
that unquenchable bite in your throat.
What you learn will be silk against neck,
drink rolling down a baron stomach,
the simple "pop" of bubble wrap.
Bite into an orange peel
the bitter will satisfy more than this.
Unpoetic poetic philosophy
Pessimism
is the heart
of reflection.
Optimism
is the heart
of identity.
Uncertainty
is the heart
of intelligence.
Purpose
is the heart,
of the heart.
is the heart
of reflection.
Optimism
is the heart
of identity.
Uncertainty
is the heart
of intelligence.
Purpose
is the heart,
of the heart.
I love you
I love you
like my dog that had to be put down
when he tore into my arm.
Like my old favorite song
that I listened to over and over
until the melody staled.
The lyrics, I now forget.
Like snowfall in spring
after a long, cold winter
after a short, hot summer.
Like that one dog movie,
the one that brought me to tears
and got me so worked up
that I could never watch it again.
Like a bitter medicine
that I had to swallow,
the one that made me better,
the one I hope to never drink again.
like my dog that had to be put down
when he tore into my arm.
Like my old favorite song
that I listened to over and over
until the melody staled.
The lyrics, I now forget.
Like snowfall in spring
after a long, cold winter
after a short, hot summer.
Like that one dog movie,
the one that brought me to tears
and got me so worked up
that I could never watch it again.
Like a bitter medicine
that I had to swallow,
the one that made me better,
the one I hope to never drink again.
Comfort
I sit atop the wind
in black spaces
among ruined valleys
that I built.
The wind licks my face,
teases my senses
for something more.
It pulls me to a direction,
in the pitch of dark
the anticipation nips at my neck,
the dread tears into my guts,
and the uncertainty fashions me a joug.
It is made just for me,
so warm, so comforting.
in black spaces
among ruined valleys
that I built.
The wind licks my face,
teases my senses
for something more.
It pulls me to a direction,
in the pitch of dark
the anticipation nips at my neck,
the dread tears into my guts,
and the uncertainty fashions me a joug.
It is made just for me,
so warm, so comforting.
Stitches
Your love was the thread
stitched into my heart.
A string came loose
and you pulled on it
until it tightened and ripped.
The etch remains, a scar.
stitched into my heart.
A string came loose
and you pulled on it
until it tightened and ripped.
The etch remains, a scar.
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