Once when I was a little kid, my dad let me ride my bike around the neighborhood by myself. It was the first time I had ventured alone, and I wasn't used to the harrowing streets yet. I peddled all across the sweeping roads, swerving and jerking over the pavement. Taking this turn and that, not caring where I ended up.
Soon enough I ended up at a dead-end after taking to many left turns. This part of the neighborhood was unfamiliar, I had never seen it before. Almost like it didn't exist before I entered it unlocking itself as I peddled along its narrow road.
I was too inexperienced, too naive, to fucking selfish to comprehend. Never learning when to cease. You end up ruining everything you touch.
Shoving it onto the horizon until it tumbles to the soil and shatters right between your fingertips. Slipping away like sand and rolling down the crevices of your chest like nonexistent breaths of air.
My stomach felt like it was sinking, profound bottomless abyss. Plunged into the chasm of a black ocean, riddled with lurking monsters unknown to mankind.
Do you know the feeling that resembles a volcanic erruption? When everything finally explodes and you sigh with relief, becuase all the build up was finally released.
Thats what poetry is like for me. All the emotions and words in my head build up so much to the point of erruption. When I grab a pen and allow everything to explode onto the paper I feel a slight relief, as if a small amount of weight was lifted off of my shoulders.
silent save for agonized scream from cracked lips eardrums shatter at her supersonic 7- Eleven cry and stains form on the table dinner was lovely cutting into a broken heart and licking the wounds as they appeared and faces peel back as plastered hands get wrapped with white boxing tape and grapple for a point to make between two sharp mountains, hollowed insides echoing crass thoughts burn like ash, embers as they hit the carpet and the house is awash in flames burning a bright blue so cold it stings as...
(twenty-nine of 30 - Official DUP NaPo/GloPoWrimo 2020)
i suppose this spill, its gist, the meaning is all wrapped up neatly in its Title, its nomenclature.
At last, only two toiling tasks to go; No more tiresome tangents taken (un-full)filling hours of trying to dig up prompts from an emptied pail of brain matter sweating out fifty unique letters strewn together foaming at the mouth forming words thereby creating another spill.