I've learned to stuff your memories down between
cold coffee and flowers, adrift with
ambrosia and cakes. I figured
2 rolls of packing tape ought to do the trick.
But ah, there was the trick. Your voice
appeared behind me so sweetly, so
quickly I barely had time to
reconsider my gambit.
So outside you've broken and
there's grey hair falling everywhere it's on
my lap, in my mouth in my hands I could
paint the walls in darkness I swear.
Trying I'm trying to
keep you contsrained to one
tiny smart part of where my head is
alas I don't think I quite
manage to keep you there.
My heart you see it
burned out for you long ago, left
in a window so long it scarred the panes
blew out the glass and finally
fluttered out completely.
Only to come to rest between
the fingers of the very moments I
sought to forget.
****************
I don't know either. I won't write for weeks and then something shitty will poor out of me that I won't revisit to edit for months. There is this aching void I need to fill with words again. I hate saying I write poetry. It sounds dorky, pompous and lame, mostly because I associate people who say they write poetry with bad ABAB poems about being sad, being alone and wishing they could be in love.
And golly gee whiz, didn't I just manage to do one JUST like that.
Do we lose profundity as we age? Remember when you were 14 or 15 and everything, all the worlds problems felt so real and close to you? When ideas were paramount, and you could change the world? I can so remember feeling vicerally excited reading Bertrand Russell once, feeling with it and involved. Now?
Now the most I can manage is either some rambling insipid post on here, or some rambling insipid comment on Blogging Baby or NicoleMart. Where did my brain go?
Was there some rock paper scissors contest I didn't know about that decided how much of my brain went to each kid? Did it leak out when my water broke? Or did I just lose the will to give a shit?
I'm voting door number 3 Bob.
Or did I cast that part of my brain aside for now, to lie in wait for when my children can do basic things like, oh I don't know, wipe their own ass or not "help" by dumping the mop water all over the kitchen floor before I've swept. (Didn't think I saw that did you Vivian..) Is it merely dormant?
I can say one thing, there is no relief quite like getting to the first birthday. Rosalyn is 13 months tomorrow, and thank your gods for that. You may have noticed that I don't really dig babies. And this year has been incredibly hard. But I've been reading books again, they've been sleeping in til 7-7:30, and I almost feel human again.
Only 3 weeks to get thru. Good thing this kid is cute.
cold coffee and flowers, adrift with
ambrosia and cakes. I figured
2 rolls of packing tape ought to do the trick.
But ah, there was the trick. Your voice
appeared behind me so sweetly, so
quickly I barely had time to
reconsider my gambit.
So outside you've broken and
there's grey hair falling everywhere it's on
my lap, in my mouth in my hands I could
paint the walls in darkness I swear.
Trying I'm trying to
keep you contsrained to one
tiny smart part of where my head is
alas I don't think I quite
manage to keep you there.
My heart you see it
burned out for you long ago, left
in a window so long it scarred the panes
blew out the glass and finally
fluttered out completely.
Only to come to rest between
the fingers of the very moments I
sought to forget.
****************
I don't know either. I won't write for weeks and then something shitty will poor out of me that I won't revisit to edit for months. There is this aching void I need to fill with words again. I hate saying I write poetry. It sounds dorky, pompous and lame, mostly because I associate people who say they write poetry with bad ABAB poems about being sad, being alone and wishing they could be in love.
And golly gee whiz, didn't I just manage to do one JUST like that.
Do we lose profundity as we age? Remember when you were 14 or 15 and everything, all the worlds problems felt so real and close to you? When ideas were paramount, and you could change the world? I can so remember feeling vicerally excited reading Bertrand Russell once, feeling with it and involved. Now?
Now the most I can manage is either some rambling insipid post on here, or some rambling insipid comment on Blogging Baby or NicoleMart. Where did my brain go?
Was there some rock paper scissors contest I didn't know about that decided how much of my brain went to each kid? Did it leak out when my water broke? Or did I just lose the will to give a shit?
I'm voting door number 3 Bob.
Or did I cast that part of my brain aside for now, to lie in wait for when my children can do basic things like, oh I don't know, wipe their own ass or not "help" by dumping the mop water all over the kitchen floor before I've swept. (Didn't think I saw that did you Vivian..) Is it merely dormant?
I can say one thing, there is no relief quite like getting to the first birthday. Rosalyn is 13 months tomorrow, and thank your gods for that. You may have noticed that I don't really dig babies. And this year has been incredibly hard. But I've been reading books again, they've been sleeping in til 7-7:30, and I almost feel human again.
Only 3 weeks to get thru. Good thing this kid is cute.
You KNOW I'm going to tell you that you're being too hard on yourself. You know this, right?
And your comments are NEVER insipid. I always look forward to them.
Okay, now I'm starting to cheese MYSELF out!!!
Besides, if we had a rock, paper scissors contest, you KNOW you'd clobber me. ;)
Posted by
Anonymous |
10:07 p.m.