so while i was home last time, i was going through a bunch of old stuff – letters, memorabilia, etc. and wow, i have a lot of old (mostly bad) poetry. i used to write a lot – but then again, i was also very depressed from like,17 – 27. somehow it’s easier to get the creative juices flowing when you’re all full of angst. i miss it (not the depression, mind, but the bug). i’ve tried writing recently, but it’s just not the same. I wrote a poem for my wedding vows, and a few other momentous occasions which stirred me to wax profound. but for the most part, it’s difficult to tap into that vein on demand.

in the meantime, i have these poems. reading them from the vantage point of emotional stability is a strange sensation – as though they were written by someone else. which, in a sense, I suppose they were, but it’s a very detached feeling, like an out-of-body experience. i suppose this is what they call objectivity. i don’t want to get rid of them, so i guess I want to create a repository somewhere. most of them are heavily autobiographical so it needs to be somewhere relatively private. I am considering making a separate, password protected page for them. Not sure.

anyway, here’s a non-bio one that’s not entirely cringeworthy (it’s untitled):

Pictures spill like rain
flooding the gutters of memory
pages stick to fingertips
and the acrid odor of dead leaves wafts up
stinging my eyes blurring
I hear the rustle echo
as the taste of old copper
settles on my tongue
the taste of blood.
My eyes will not listen further
into that summer of Brooklyn and Bobby
I see clearly.
It wasn’t what I wanted
Skanky, sweaty, swollen
his lips made me lie
black as a rotted tooth
slick knife of falsity that cuts to the truth
like an overripe fruit.
Bobby brought down the rain
while she prayed
one day she would understand what she was praying for
desperate absolution paid in hot tears
la vie, la mort, la resurrection
the trees cried out
their pain written on the wind

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