Poetry is a rough subject for me. It goes all the way back to my childhood. It began with writing silly parodies to existing songs, but before long, I was replicating poetic feelings with fluid rhythm and make believe heart. Sooner after, I was gifted with underdeveloped feelings of my own. It was at that fragile age when words could not express feeling, so I wrote things anyway, and said that they did. This most difficult and artistic phase coincided with a time when you had to ask individuals to read your poetry in person, from a sheet of paper, like a dick. It was a nightmare. Everybody hated those poems.
As years passed, and I blossomed into new stages of being, I grew to hate them too. They were awful. Besides, I had newer, improved poetry, that was more current to the new person I was at that new time, that I felt was finer written. And in the blink of an eye, it sucked just as much as my older stuff. Yep. My life has been a cycle of changing for the better, and hating what I've changed from. For every poem that I begin writing, one that I've completed becomes complete garbage. This cycle continues to this day.
It wasn't until more previously, during this present stage of mine, or maybe the stage just before it, that I learned how to make my writing personal. My earlier work was all forced. It wasn't flowing from a tangible place inside me, it came from nowhere, it reflected nothing. I was writing with my hands, not my soul. Once I figured out how to access thoughts that were organic to me, and how to transfer those thoughts in place of my poems, my work was at last given meaning. I could finally reach my inner self, and find the joy of delving in it's wonders. The words came more naturally, revealing secrets that I otherwise would not have known. Poetry is magic, my friend, except the rule about secrets is the opposite.
Anyway, long story short, it was recently brought to my attention that I wrote the following poem. I reread it, and was surprised at how accurately it captures the essence of the woman I am as of late. It's not very old, so it's not garbage yet, but it will be, so it's now or never. Also, if you like poems more than I do, check out my earlier blog entitled, "A Thing". I wouldn't. And so, without further segue, here it is, a spilling of my spirit, a snippet of my soul..
I'm a poem. Hi, I'm lame
Hope I throw them off their game
That'll show 'em your uniqueness
Sit at home, and hone your weakness
Prose of roses' thorns and pinkness
Cozily reborn in ink-jets
Testify your boring secrets
Bless their eyes with scores of leaflets
Wreck their minds with forms and feeling
Let each line be warm and healing
Steal their sordid hearts with nectar
Fresh from gardens of your depth
Where ponds and parchment coalesce
And sonnet arches row the fence
To quench the unrequesting guest
Who pets your ego like a pest
Oh, such expressions to inflict!
To feed the soul and soothe the sick
To dream, to die, to live and live
Through me, with finely written script
May demons rise to sip your cup
And be surprised with sweetened tusks
As cherubs dive beneath their butts
With buttons busting from their guts!
Oh, clarify with fair rebuff
Humbled by thy sharing stuff
Cumbersome and harried host
Ponderer of scary ghosts
The honor of this merry toast
Don thee in thy notes of wonder
Gandhi of thy lonesome plunder
Sunder unto me your pittance
Of epiphany and witness
Fit me in refined dictation
Silken reams of time and patience
Taste for me what I've not tasted
Say through me what mouths displace
Playfully endow this page
Astound sensations, wow the strange
Crowds will towel your brow of strain
As consonants and vowels explain
The bowels of your salted scrapes
And bounties of green glossy grapes
Oh, bow for me, my author dear
With thoughts so wise beyond your years
Who's awesome cries drop awesome tears
Sear my spine and grind your gears
That'll redefine their judgement
Enemies of love will love it
Let me be your smug propellant
How I hunger just to smell it!
Now they'll understand your talent!
Branded on my handsome palette
Oh, radical transcendent totem
Thatta' girl, you end this poem!
http://princessgarbageface.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-thing.htmlhttp://princessgarbageface.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-thing.html
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