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The grasshoppers have stopped coming.
The Muses weep. No one honors them with dance or song. The Muses weaken. Man’s only concern is War. Greed, the poison. Eternal, the Muses sleep. Creativity, Art, Expression lost.
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The night air is cool and crisp
The wind blowing in gusts that frighten the unsuspecting ear Alone, staring at screens, I contemplate one, two, three things and more Attention drawn to everything and nothing Candles burn until they die The noise of life dimming until the sun shines once more Set me on your windowsill
Face me toward the sun Give me water Watch me grow Help me blossom under your care Talk with me, tell me of your hopes and fears Carbon dioxide love Let me bloom Inner WarriorI might be 5’4 (and ½) but sometimes I walk around feeling like a goddamn warrior.
I stand tall and clench my fists and feel as though I could punch a hole in the ground. In my mind, I’m a fighter, a rebel, something akin to an Amazon or a Valkyrie. I look small and weak, but inside I know who I am, who I want to be, who I will become. When I stretch and hear bones popping I feel as though I’m transforming. There is a rage inside this small frame that’s screaming for an outlet. I desire the strength of a wild beast. I want to gnaw and claw my way through the world, gaining the respect of all who challenge me and fail to destroy me. One day I will gain the power that I desire, for I have already seen it, and I will make it mine. MusesI wish I were as inspiring as a Muse
As talented on my feet as Terpsichore As ethereal and charismatic as Calliope As convincing an actress as Melpomene or Thalia I wish I were as memorable as a Muse Fiction made whole My life recorded by Clio on an eternal scroll I wish my voice could tempt and sooth A voice as wonderful as Polyhymnia’s I wish I were good at everything and nothing Talented and poised and happy A lover and a dreamer like Erato A musician like Euterpe A stargazer like Urania Unafraid of the dark expanse between the stars And curious until the very end Air flows through the open window
Blowing incense smoke this way and that I stare at the great gray of the sky Listening to the birds sing Watching life drift by You complained that I wouldn't let you have what was yours
But my body is not yours I've said that I'm yours, but that doesn't mean you own me Or my body or my soul I can love you and still belong to no one Don't you see? In a moment of melancholy I let you take me The way you wanted Your favorite position, angle, what have you I tell myself it's fine Let you have your fun And then a flash of pain A triggered memory I start to cry but I don't let you see I let you finish because I feel bad I leave the room and cry The bathroom my safe little box You don't know that you've hurt me Or rather caused me to remember someone who did I don't blame you You didn't know And I didn't realize what I'd locked away You cry when I can finally breathe again You hold me when I tell you You cry You apologize I comfort you A silly reversal of roles Waste Photos bring me little comfort.
As I stare at the photographs on my cork-board I wonder with discontent, is this all that will be left of me? I sit here and waste away. Writing for no one or everyone, allowing my shoulders to curve inward, ruining my posture for all the years to come. The sky outside calls to me, but I ignore it for no good reason. I sit here with my distractions, technology that may or may not rot my brain and stain my insides with cancerous cells. All around me is nonsense, material that won’t last, waste. WinterThe hardest part of winter: the darkness.
The sun is down by four pm and the day dies. This death causes anguish and pain. The darkness makes for sleepy minds and desperate hearts. It's hard to fight the urge to weep and whine in the cover of early night, for nights bring thoughts of the day, and we mourn its early death. PhenomenaWithout realizing it, in a span of four months, I've written to you twice.
The first was about rain, and the second was about snow. From September to December, I wrote of wanting to watch different types of weather phenomena with you. I find it strange to want something so mundane. A few drops of rain, a flurry of snowflakes, and the desire to share them with you is unequivocally strong. Some days I'm not even sure what we're doing, why I'm with you, but then I think of the rain, I think of the snow, and then I understand. Water in any form is still water. Even as the seasons change, or my feelings waver, there will always be a cloud. |
Poetry from the past and presentPoetry is not my forte, and I find most poetry to be sad or reflective of a teenage depressive state, but I have shared my rather crappy and depressive poetry to show my progression from sad and weird teen angst to sad Archives
March 2019
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