Saturday, November 26, 2011

Day 858: When given the time. and forced into energy. the product is either inspirational. or long.

we drink and dance
talk about our work
and let the pieces trickle down
never settle
never peaceful
how the minutes we spend in front of paper hoping to born poems do not turn to hours
not anymore
how you are growing old
and less innocent
and less visual
and less
less ready
so much less
that the falling of a season does not bring you to tears
and not near or close to the words

i am looking for something to move me
have been for months
and all i’ve come up with is a woman who makes me want to write masterpieces
but nothing
can seen to slow me down enough to give anything other than her smile
the energy it deserved to live

she is my second love taking captive my first
and i am struggling to write anything other than the tint of her irises
struggling to surprise myself with some worth of genius
i have found in these bones from time to time

i feel a need to give more
but an unwillingness to find the power under my skin
want to build a fortress
but the only materials i have close enough to touch are meant to fall
created as ruble
and the journey
to something more permanent
the foundation of something that cannot crack
cannot shatter
will not bear to be from clean palms
cannot grow from this crackle of a wrist
I am giving nothing in me enough space to expand
And so everything is repeat and imitation

Find me a genuine blade of grass
One that never dreamed of being more
Or less
And ill trade you a glass piece of my skin
The most stubborn and weak
But too persistent to shatter
Ill give you a song with no beginning
Not a single entry
But a home built somewhere within the clef of its base
A hallow crevice
Like the vein of a flower
The stem of a woman
Too afraid to sever herself horizontal
That someone may see something too real to be beautiful too honest to be symmetrical
Find me a saturated piece of tomorrow that falls into flaw
And ill find courage in the crack of me that have never found the surface
The bones of mine that seem too brittle for purpose

I wonder where the intersections will take us
In the wake of all of this
And writing
And dying
And winning
And writing
And crying
And writing
Until we’ve written through it

I wonder how the ends find the surface
How the immersed and waterlogged sentiments
Are transformed into something worth attention
Wonder how I will read this
Or the next day
And whether or not ill be able to say tonight
That I tried to create
Unlike the month before where I knew I wrote to say that I haven’t quite given up
I wonder how the giving up looks when you document it
When you let it follow you around in the body of words you insist on producing
Either before you are ready to release
Or give it the energy needed

Everything about these lines is a lie
I wonder tonight
How much of my poetry has been me fighting to emerge from smoke to reveal something
To magnify
And how much has been me shrinking
condensing myself into the mass

how much of me is trying to be remembered and inspired
while the rest is begging to hide behind the veil and be forgotten

I wonder
How far we will get through these questions before we realize
That all the energy and hours will plant you no inspiration
Will materialize no answers
Where certainty does not belong

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