Thankfully I've still got a little time to share with you guys. At least, as long as my poems and short stories from last semester last. Once I run out of those I'll actually have to start writing some more stuff, which would take much longer. Hopefully it'll be summer by then. :) Anyways, I hope you enjoy this next poem. Warning! It's got some bad words in it! Oh noes!
*****************
The last good kiss you had
Was years ago.
Back when there were more fireworks
Than the fourth of July.
The withdrawal was
Worth the high.
His eyes were brighter
Than the big, blue sky.
That mime that walks
Up and down the street,
Entreating people to stop
With his invisible ropes
And boxes you can’t see.
Those night-darkened eyes make you wonder.
That morning-brightened face makes you guess.
Those wining and dining red lips draw you in, to
Those encompassing arms, those pure white hands,
Grasping your own.
Climbing a ladder, higher and higher,
Reaching for heaven together.
He says you look good
In black and white stripes.
You don’t mind wearing them.
For the first few years
Because you can’t see past the light show,
Your symptoms are kicking in,
And the dark of his eyes pour into your own.
Dripping leaves, rivers of snow,
Storms of blossoms, tsunamis of heat.
Miles and miles and miles.
You’re tired. You’re faded.
You’ve wasted
All your life.
I love you, he says. You’re
Fucking mine.
The night conceals his shadowy eyes.
The morning reveals his painted on face.
His lips are poison, and his gloves are a façade.
You can’t escape his arms, even though
You’ve realized those hands aren’t white.
They’re just gloves
You’ve seen the rough, dirty hands underneath.
It’s your fault, you know. He’s
Mute, trapped, entangled, fallen.
Wait. No, that’s you.
You hope he (you?) will suffocate.
He starves you (himself?)
You cut him (yourself?)
He(you?) fall(s) off the ladder.
The spider keeps climbing.
Over and over. Stop!
He/you won’t/can’t.
And the mime is still climbing.
Still reaching for that heaven
That maybe isn’t there at all.
But you’re tired of climbing.
Maybe stripes aren’t your style after all.
You know better now. You’re
Speaking out, breaking out, cutting loose, flying.
Stop! I love you, he says.
No. You’re a
Fucking mime.
No pretend ropes will pull you back.
Nonexistent boxes won’t keep you in.
The sidewalk welcomes your steps and
The mime stops.
*********************
Hmm. Just out of curiosity, how do you guys feel about using words and expressing beliefs that you don't hold yourself in your writing? In this poem I dropped a couple of f-bombs, which I very very very very VERY rarely do in real life. In one of my short stories, the main character is the exact opposite of me (a guy who swears and drinks and parties a lot and has a lot of one night stands). When I was younger I always used to feel like putting curse words and really dark, or mature subjects in my stories and things was a big no-no, but since my last creative writing workshop, and I guess since I started college, it hasn't seemed like such a big deal to me. That's probably just me growing up though.
I think I might surprise people though. I'm usually a really happy, fun, optimistic person, so I think someone who knows me might be a little weirded out by the fact that I can even think of all these horrible dark things. *shrug* I'm sure that everyone, even the happiest, sweetest, most innocent person you know (children excluded) has thought about these things more than once. It's just not talked about a lot. And just because I sometimes write about it doesn't mean that I'm turning into an emo Nemo. (haha, made that up myself) It just means that I'm aware of them and I can sympathize with those feelings of anger and hatred and fear, even if I haven't experienced exactly what I wrote about. My English professor once said that good poetry comes from a place of pain. But good poetry can also come from places of happiness too. :) Next time I'll have to show you a poem that was inspired by one of my favorite people ever.
Peace!
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