thirteen days till the dead
line, I am looking for a poem.
I sit on the edge of the bed I haven't slept on in a week
and search everywhere: I start with the walls
in birthday cards and photographs
but all I can think is that I should have posters.
what sort of nearly-sixteen-year-old girl
doesn't have posters? The wrong sort
surely, that is what I am. I look for poetry
under the broken typewriter, in the crevices
on my bookshelf. I yell out to it,
calling every name I can think of.
I shout for rhythm, for stanza, (I would even welcome
rhyme, I cry, at this point), for a perfectly equilateral
triangle of image, emotion and concept. I wait-
no answer. My beckonings reduced to a whimper
I collapse, bury my face into a stiff pillow and drift
to sleep, dreaming of salvation in the form of a white horse
not to take me to a castle faraway,
just to gallop in an eggshell.
--------------------------------------------------
Not a real poem.
Purely for my entertainment.
And yours, I hope.
ack.
STRESS.
2 comments:
Definitely entertainment. I enjoyed it very much.
Especially the last two couplets. =)
that is a real poem. that is a real poem if i ever saw one. oh my gosh. that's brilliant. i love you. i was thinking the same thing at fifteen after midnight last night (this morning?). i've been going crazy reading poetry, trying to bulk up for the audition/ knowing what the heck i'm doing. / trying to make my writing better.
i think everyone under-estimates the power of moleskine. everyone. i under estimated it. and then i opened it. just like that. i was sold. i am now a writer, forever and for worse. because decisions like this don't actually get better. but still, i can enjoy what little pleasure i get by unwrapping precious blank pages.
sigh.
thinking in poetry again, as can possibly be seen. sometimes it's gross. i'd like to just be me for a change. oh well.
stopping the rambling. love you,
emilea
oh, and i commented instead of voted. : - )
Post a Comment