Poet Introduction I alternate between silly rhymes about mundane things, and all the heavy stuff in my head that I can't say out loud. I'd like to say I share my writing to enrich others' lives..but honestly? I'm mostly just spilling the junk out of my head before it pops.
Torrential rain And wind-ripped sky Spring’s bluster can’t touch it That dead crow, up high.
* Last week, there was a second crow. A live one - either mourning or just plain stupid and confused. It sat on the next branch, cawing… directly at the corpse. (I swear I’m not making this up.) I couldn’t tell if it was saying “get up and fly” or “don't you remember me?” because I don’t speak crow. But I feel certain the response was “we’re all going the same way somehow... together.” * ...
There’s a dead crow hanging against a clear blue sky (that’s my soul up there)
* It’s been there for months. Catching my eye on every drive home, piquing my curiosity because I can’t quite tell what it is from a moving car, but I have my suspicions. A feathery blackness in the crook of branches, not shaken free by wind, or weighed down by snow; persistent through the seasons. I’m obsessed with it. My girl, who is yet unaware of true darkness Says “mom, it’s just a piece of plastic, silly.”
Right this minute I am fighting… The quicksand mood that sucks me deeper, pulling harder with every struggle. The voice that says you’re judging my worth, and makes you my enemy. The drink that promises to quiet that voice but will amplify it tomorrow. The urge to crawl under a heavy blanket and hide from all that I love.
The silent battle is raging.
If I seem quiet or faraway it’s because I am - Lost in a realm inside my head, A dark kingdom of dragons and werewolves ...
I've decided to be a crappy poet. Better than lurking here, reading and never writing. Fuck my own sense of what's good enough, it's all fair game now. All the stupid thoughts dumb revelations and half-baked ideas. One-liners or rambling detours. I'll try to crank out steaming heaps of semi-poetic shite on the regular. Maybe there will be some seeds of real poetry sprouting from the manure.