Filed under: Poetry | Tags: art, dream, emotion, fantasy, farce, feelings, fraud, hate, love, one a day, play, poem, Poetry, rage, thought
I am a Farce.
A Fraud.
A Ball of pretentious emotion
And bottled up rage
Bubbling over
And corroding your counter tops.
I fill in the cracks
And seethe through your silent reading.
I disrupt your train of thought
With my melancholy enchantment.
I am a Farce.
A fanatically inclined
Judgmental narcissist
Neurotic and alone.
I will devour your calm demeanor
And use your playfully chosen words
Against you.
I am not a dream.
I am not a fantasy.
I am a Farce.
I feel stagnate and stale
My potential is drifting away like chunks of ice from a glacier.
My keystrokes increase and my creativity dwindles
I’m lifeless, floating from one task to another
And never discovering my voice.
Why does it eat at me,
Why? Why do I feel the need so badly.
It’s persistent, as if life were about to end,
As if my only contribution could be________.
My only contribution hangs in the balance,
When I think about the pain, the struggles, the misunderstanding,
and undue influence, the mistreatment and sacrifice
That this one thing will carry forever.
Why does it eat at me?
I am a young women, not old, not past her time.
I still have a chance, many opportunities to try,
To become a better woman, mother , friend.
So why does it eat at me. It is not mine,
Not my longing that creates the need to conceive,
But something else.
Something that eats at me, and begs me–
When? When? WHEN?
When will you contribute me?
Underneath it all
You know I’m just the same
Scared little girl
Taking walks in the rain.
With my light brown hair
And my dark blue eyes
There’s nothing so sacred
As a woman’s disguise.
Third floor
I know where to find you.
The key
Under the mat.
Inside the pale of morning,
The window sile– the cat.
Asleep upon the couch
With hands behind your head
–It’s better while you rest you know–
I wonder why?-you said.
You lie and I see no fault
You speak and I have a list.
But now in the stillness,
You’re covered in the mist.
I begin with the bacon,
The eggs–not too hard.
Out the window-summertime,
Below-a rich man’s yard.
I can hear you start to stir
Grinding your teeth- and awake-
I look over and you smile,
I hold out your plate.
Sprawled out, you stretch, and rise
Coming over to the bar.
A kiss -good morning- so sweet,
Afternoon not too far.
Secretly I preferred it
Silence and Fear.
Watching from the window
As you walk off.
Rain shaping the contours
Of your face,
Like some great Greek statue
That refuses to admit
how much he needs the sun.
Who am I
but myself
If you are my puppet
Then I am your Fool.
Sure I own you
But you have made me what I am.
I have directed you
And you have stolen the show.
I wanted to be
The girl in the flowered dress
That waits on the doorstep
For you to come home.
But I got tired of waiting
So… I went home and
put on some jeans and
a T-shirt, took off my shoes.
And when you showed up at
my door I was in the middle
of devouring a half gallon of Rocky Road
And you sat down
And you looked over
With as much love in
Your eyes as if I had
been that girl in the
Flowered dress with perfect
hair blowing over my perfect shoulders
With lipstick and silver
And gently arched feet.
On the corner
Swinging their hips
Their lips
Sweet cherry red
High heels
And low skirts
Kackling to one another
And smiling
With lipstick teeth
And hairspray hair
Coming or going
The cars stopping
Honking waving
Hey babies and oowwweee’s
The night
The lights
Bouncing off
The sequins
And pearls
The music
The love
The noise
Of the night
In the summer.
I’m here.
I’ve always been.
–Somewhat a mystery–
Unlike the shifting sands
Much more methodically.
You see my many pages
My words are so unwinding,
My script is somewhat simple
Unlike my Labyrinth binding.
You know too much already
The ending’s quite a tease.
We all wind up as ashes
Floating in the breeze.
There is no declaration
To sanctify the night.
No pleasant salutation
To take away the fright.
I am a bit more realistic–
–A little less nieve.
I don’t see rainbows everyday,
But I’m happy to recieve.
And so it stands–I’m here.
Much as I’ve always been
Aware of all my flaws
And the temperment of men.
