11.10.10

Blackbird

Never truer words spoken.
For some reason, I'm fumbling through typing this.
My finger seem weighted down, as if by lead.
Unable to move gracefully from key to key.
I don't know what to say.
"There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard"

I'm feeling out of sorts today.
As thought I am looking at the world through someone else's glasses.
It's blurred and not right, and it gives me a headache.
I have a procrastination mentality right now.
I don't want to do anything.
Surprisingly enough, I don't even want to sleep.
How strange.

So I'm going to post a poem.
And I'm not sure how I feel about it at all.
It seems cliche and unfocused,
Sort of silly.
There are phrases I like, and phrases I despise.

It's draft one,
Of what I presume will be a plethora of drafts. It's just one. The first attempt. At a poem I want to submit to a writing contest.

I feel silly and stupid when I say I'm submitting to writing contests.
What chance have I got?

So here,
Have this to read. Enjoy? Critique.
Here. It's called "Linoleum".

Linoleum, under barren toes,

Chilled, like morning dewdrops.

Hands resting,

Gripping, the sides of porcelain sink.

An aura of cold morning light,

Autumn morning, not spring.

The chill bitter, not welcoming.

Staring, green eyes,

Into mirror, faded edges, dulled background

Of life, in this chilled autumn scene.

And a face, scrubbing,

Scrubbing away at blemishes and freckles.

Soapy suds momentarily hide the mirrored face

A guise, a veil,

Avert the eyes.

Don’t answer the question.

Nipping like the acrid winds.

Water springs from rusted tap,

And guise is gone.

Clean, barren face.

Tired green eyes.

And the smell of soap that lingers

Like the embodiment of cleanliness.

Wafting, mingling with

Smell of fall rains,

Damp leaves.

Speckled mirror edges,

Accent what isn’t there.

Encroaching borders on the paled face.

A battle that swallows one up.

The mind, predator.

The heart, prey.

Logic at war with emotion.

Bloodied, bruised bodies,

Ensue.

In the mirror,

Reversed reflection.

Of the tortured eyes.

Standing, slumped,

From cold and fear

And thought.

Feet, anchors,

On the flecked green-gold,

1970’s linoleum.

Shifting, in fall colors.

The chill runs through,

From feet to heart.

Spilt-second

Of knowing.

Green eyes become clear.

Horribly clear.

And a shudder

Forces hands to grip

Solid, to the porcelain.

A weight, an anvil,

Thrust into the gut,

The heart.

Logic falls,

Flat like the crisp,

Descending leaves.

To lie along the floor tiles.

And the feeling of fall nights,

Ushered in.

So clear

And quiet.

Still.

Still.

Heartbeat against lungs,

Thin as air, cold as night.

The only sound,

Like leaves stirring.

Dissension of crisp and clear

Fall night.

Green eyes.

Pale face.

Flecked with gold-green.

And you see.

Logic fail,

Heart fumble.

And grasp.

Cling to words,

You thought untrue.

“I love you.”


Wednesday I'm handing this (Or a further draft of this) over to one of my teachers.

I wonder what he'll think,

As even I don't know what to make of this.

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