I was feeling miserable one day as I am aught to do. I went on Facebook, of course, to share how miserable I was. I complained about my lack of companionship or in other words my lack of life.
I don’t leave the house often and this inspired me to compare myself to the great Emily Dickinson since she was a poet as I am. The difference I immediately saw was that she wore white and I wear black all the time.
I’ve been thinking since then about that comparison of poets and fashion. The relationship between poetry and fashion. What do you think of when you think of a poet? A cursory search on Google brought me to berets! I myself think of something like this:
Reminds me of Keats for some reason!
I started to think. How would I as a poet like to be seen? I like the thought of being a ‘witchy Emily Dickinson’. (I legit said this to my friend not an hour an hour ago). What does a witchy Emily Dickinson look like? Stevie Nicks!
I even have my own color palette picked out. The base color is black (ofc!) but I want to accent it with grey, white, and red!
watch the wolves they know the test
and what they don’t they sniff out the rest
Lying at the foot of grandmother’s armrest
Watching the rise and fall of her breast
Readying themselves for a feast
I can see something in his teeth
A gleam, a pearl, a bone, a key
Oh I think it might be me
I’m tired of being fucking reasonable
Of having to be calm, cool, collected
I want to be angry. I want to be mad.
I want to claim my birthright.
It has been calling to me for the longest
Through the ages from mitochondrial eve
Adam probably called her a bitch too.
I’m tired of having to smile. I’m tired of saying sorry
for things I didn’t do. I’m tired of everything.
I’m angry and I’m not allowed to be.
I must be the voice of reason.
The fucking mediator. A role I’ve taken since birth
Between two witches and a boar.
Is it black or blue?
This body that used to be
What am I going to do?
Here on the Earth without
Your crooked smile.
Your witch’s laugh
It’s so cliche but that saying is true. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t always the best granddaughter, but I now see that I loved the hell out of my grandmother. I didn’t see it back then, but I was taking the steps to resolve my issues a long time before she died because of my fears of hurting her. I told someone I don’t know why it took her getting sick to see that. But I guess you can’t see the forest for the trees.
Summer is the worse for exposing foes
like spring exposing the seeds
summer brings in the weeds of doom
the cycle continues
I never thought of myself as a superstitious person, but I’ve always been analytic. A few years ago I started to notice that every summer something bad would happen to me or my family. I’ve got a running tally. The Cruel Summers as I call them began in 2009 about a year after we moved to the city. I’m hoping 2016 will break the cycle.
I played with your heart
I treated it like game
And here I claim
I never loved you
like you did me
I don’t know if I can stay
for an entire eternity.
So I found a boy
that talked like you
and had your ways
So why did I feel
like I was nothing
but his waste?
Continue reading “The Crying Game”
The queen has fallen. The queen is dead.
Long live the republic in my head.
The wound is still fresh
It puckers, it bleeds,
it is sprouting weeds
of what used to be
you and me
sitting neath trees
listening to the rustle of
our ancestors leave
while we wonder
about what used to be
god i hope you
return to me