Tag Archives: poetry

Blizzard Condition

The wind outside is angry

and so am I.

It whips around our so-called sturdy walls teasingly,

it slaps the tree trunks and bare branches

with such an attitude,

it howls boastfully until I pull back the shade to look.

In the pathetic yellow-orange glare of the streetlight,

the snow is not falling, it is dancing hectically,

dizzily.

Barely a flake lands on the hidden ground

before it is thrust back up into the air in a frenzy.

My sight falls, unimpeded, upon a rabbit in the yard,

a shimmery gray brown bump in the white flux.

They say the air feels like 20 below and I’m glad I’m not him.

But I imagine I am him

alone in the frigid night,

and while I sit amid the chill calculating my next jump,

a strong hand comes from above and scoops me up

and hides me someplace warm 

between a thick coat and a compassionate torso.

Perhaps I am not so glad.

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An Old Random Poem

Electric ants trace

binary paths across my dead skin,

my dormant eyes.

My cold brain radiates waves

of nothing that reach

nothing.

Tied loosely to an icy slab,

movement an impossibility,

digital spit drips down my chin,

unnoticed by a programmed smile.

Don’t try and save me 

from this

technologically advanced coma.

It’s all the rage.

digital

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A Poem Scribbled in Purple

I want to be different

I want to be the person I promised the world I would be

I want to be the person I promised myself I would be

There is no pause, rewind, slow motion,

My life pushes forward full steam

while I linger, hesitate, pretend to meditate.

Staying still is equal to a refusal to move forward, press on,

It’s an attempt to let the past catch up,

a way of going back.

What’s back there that’s worth such a lack of effort?

Nothing real, it already happened, and now it’s gone,

so it can’t be real.

It’s an image, and an image can be perfect,

and in my perfect image of the recent past

I was happy, or so I remember.

I hate the physical space that surrounds me

for leaving my perfection behind.

I tried to take it with me but it wouldn’t budge,

So neither will I. 

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It’s Not You, It’s Me

I haven’t written anything in quite a while, and I do feel bad about that. Not for the sake of anyone who may or may not be reading this stuff, I could not possibly care less about that. But for my own sake. The reason I started doing this was because I wanted to write more. I have a degree in creative writing, and I found my self writing so infrequently that it became somewhat disheartening. It shouldn’t be such a chore to sit down at a computer and write for a few minutes, especially when the topic has no limitations what so ever. And yet it seems that it has become exactly that. A chore. And it’s barely begun. Very sad. If I don’t write, what am I doing? Nearly all the other activities in my day seem to be passive when it comes to the intellectual output they require. But writing is different, it’s active. Unlike reading, where you are simply following along with a story that someone else has imagined, the content is yet to be decided. The writer determines direction, pace, topic, everything. There is nothing before I sit down and begin typing, or writing, or however I may choose to physically express the words in my head. And it is listening to and harnessing those words in my head that no other activity seems to demand. Even when I’m at work, and I’m selling things to people they don’t need, I have a short list of phrases that I’m required to say and that I say over and over again within the course of the day. I don’t even have to think about it anymore. And they’re not even my words to begin with, they are words that were carefully chosen based on consumer psychology and marketing and all those sorts of tricks that are used to trick people into paying money for cheap crap that they would be better off not buying at all.

Mostly in college I wrote poems. As a creative writing major, there is usually the choice between fiction and poetry at all levels to fulfill degree requirements. Some people take both, some focus on one or the other. I found out early on that fiction wasn’t for me. I would get so obsessed with creating a tangible mood in my stories, that the action was nearly impossible to decipher. The readers were fully aware of how my characters felt, but had no idea what was happening in a literal sense.  Hence the draw to poetry. And every once in a while I’ll have a random flash of inspiration and jot down a few poetic lines, but recently these flashes have been very few and far between. I think it’s because the most drastic moments of inspiration come from times of strong emotion, whether it’s profound happiness or intense depression. But at the moment, I don’t feel very strongly about anything. There are people that I miss dearly, but those I care about enough I make a point to speak to often on the phone or otherwise, which makes the loss or distance less dramatic. I am simply content, and that does not make for very much inspiration.

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