I created this blog to share my poetry with the internet. I wanted to know if what I scribbled onto the pages of my journals were fit to be called poems at all. Maybe they are. I have yet to find out.
2019 is upon us in a couple of weeks and after good bout of arguments with my boyfriend about where my writing career is headed, I have decided to deviate from publishing dreary alienating poems. To what? I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I will be until I begin whatever I think I’ve planned.
I like to read. I used to love to read but maybe that’s why I’ve ended up where I am ; not reading nearly as much as I want to. Booktube has terrified me with it’s ability to read close to ten books a week and collect Goodreads statistics to the jaw-dropping hundreds annually. I don’t have that kind of stamina nor that kind of interest.
So 52 books is where I will start. One book journaled in a week. Every week, I will sit with one person (an author) and hear what he/she has to say and then reflect upon it here. Here is not Tumblr, which is an instantly pacifying thought and here is not the salivating, snarling mouth of a beast waiting to snap shut at my fumbles.
If I get to the end of the year in one piece psychologically, I hope to feel accomplished in some way. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve gone a few places, seen a few things, talked to a few people. All of which reading is able to provide, in the comfort of my living room & in the hungry spaces of my mind.
From here, I migrate…
She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else.
She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you?
Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa?
Can you imagine the pain you gave her?
Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction.
Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too.
image credit : tumblr
i am a ball of lies; truth entwined(?)
all i know is that i wasn’t born with a moral code.
it’s true that what i make believe is not true
because it is only true to my own senses(?)
then nothing is true, nothing is real, nothing makes sense, nothing is here,
i was told to have a festival within me
a sort of unexplained hoopla
but inside me it is stoppered
and nothing good is festering
progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,
g, wake up early, love life
i cannot channel the spirit that will
help me look forward to paying bills
it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,
with no beating of the drum
nothing to smile about, really.o for it
i have undressed a thousand times
but i still do not know myself naked
why should i, when all i have done
is plaster my image on to a canvas too good
for the likes of my oozing pores
i could scrub out all that is earthly within me
and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth
bound to places, times, memories, maggots
so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should
gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia
i thrust the impressions i have of myself
underneath fervent currents
and carry on,
dirt in my cavities,
dust in my eyes.
i’m a mess these days
and these days are melting away
like candles on the back porch
in the heat of july
it’s only june
i’ve leaped ahead of myself
i’ve made notes and revised
and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early
it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,
it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :
who will die, who will die in july
father, step father, friend, feline?
who will die, die and die,
somber, arid july?
It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”