girlofthesky - Hello Poetry

I have become stone. I used to be soft, open, passionate. But somewhere I looked up to find I am made of tortoise shell, a million years old. I am full of emotions, they're just buried too deep to find- maybe I never had them in the first place or maybe they have just fossilized. I am a mother, without my child. I am not a daughter, though my mother is still alive (define alive). I am spiritual, but I have lost religion, Buddha, Jesus, and Allah are not contradictory to me. I am selfish, and self-serving, but I love - just in my own way - flawed.

0

Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC

Mantra

I have become stone. I used to be soft, open, passionate. But somewhere I looked up to find I am made of tortoise shell, a million years old. I am full of emotions, they're just buried too deep to find- maybe I never had them in the first place or maybe they have just fossilized. I am a mother, without my child. I am not a daughter, though my mother is still alive (define alive). I am spiritual, but I have lost religion, Buddha, Jesus, and Allah are not contradictory to me. I am selfish, and self-serving, but I love - just in my own way - flawed.

1

My Mom's plates given to me weeks ago, remain in the trunk of my car. Rattling chains of Marley at every bump and turn, reminding me of dinners long ago when we were still a family, when those plates still mattered.

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC

My Mom's Plates

My Mom's plates given to me weeks ago, remain in the trunk of my car. Rattling chains of Marley at every bump and turn, reminding me of dinners long ago when we were still a family, when those plates still mattered.

8

There is a place in Colombia where kids have proven they can educate themselves better than you can. In the midst of a world we have labelled "developing" children of farmers who don't know English (but are better citizens anyway) are kicking our superior ***** There's talk of bringing the method here where, no doubt, it will be standardized (all the better to fit into a single test) and forced down our children's throats while we coo God Bless America!

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC

Countries Developing Developing Countries

There is a place in Colombia where kids have proven they can educate themselves better than you can. In the midst of a world we have labelled "developing" children of farmers who don't know English (but are better citizens anyway) are kicking our superior ***** There's talk of bringing the method here where, no doubt, it will be standardized (all the better to fit into a single test) and forced down our children's throats while we coo God Bless America!

14

Retreat into the palms my dearest red-haired siren. (It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?) Back turned away from steamboat thoughts. Play your lovely instrument (is it a guitar? a violin?) its soft tones lifting up with the birds of Paradise. God cannot see you or sees you better. Yes, you are more aware of yourself away from civilization that heavy burden we beg for. You could forever be my lovely here. Blazing in the sun. Paradise's Artemis, A Goddess hiding in the Garden. If you were me, or I you were we each other could I turn away from Steamboat thoughts? I could lure Ulysses I could sound dangerous music. Don't call them back, tired of your island, your handmaids of Paradise. I don't want to have been wrong to trust your image if you are not a Goddess at all. I might hate you or I might love you now that we've been ****** together. Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda but I retreated into the palms with you.

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC

Ligeia Siren

Retreat into the palms my dearest red-haired siren. (It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?) Back turned away from steamboat thoughts. Play your lovely instrument (is it a guitar? a violin?) its soft tones lifting up with the birds of Paradise. God cannot see you or sees you better. Yes, you are more aware of yourself away from civilization that heavy burden we beg for. You could forever be my lovely here. Blazing in the sun. Paradise's Artemis, A Goddess hiding in the Garden. If you were me, or I you were we each other could I turn away from Steamboat thoughts? I could lure Ulysses I could sound dangerous music. Don't call them back, tired of your island, your handmaids of Paradise. I don't want to have been wrong to trust your image if you are not a Goddess at all. I might hate you or I might love you now that we've been ****** together. Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda but I retreated into the palms with you.

38

My poetry is like a sneeze it pops into my head and I write it down and its a relief its purpose changes to express millions of things I don't have much control and I don't ant to the main underlying purpose is selfish my poetry is for me i don't care if you read it or understand it my fingers itch and words keep pummeling my brain so I write to shut them up and every so often it comes out well I never sit down to write a poem and i hate writing it more than once it punches me in the middle of the grocery store leaving me panicking for paper and pen

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC

"What Do You Want From (Your) Poetry?"

My poetry is like a sneeze it pops into my head and I write it down and its a relief its purpose changes to express millions of things I don't have much control and I don't ant to the main underlying purpose is selfish my poetry is for me i don't care if you read it or understand it my fingers itch and words keep pummeling my brain so I write to shut them up and every so often it comes out well I never sit down to write a poem and i hate writing it more than once it punches me in the middle of the grocery store leaving me panicking for paper and pen

1

My little dove has never been good to me. It halts and stops at the best parts. I am too lazy to whip it into shape. Instead, I indulge and abandon my writing pen. No wonder I can't write **** anymore.

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Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC

Little Dove

My little dove has never been good to me. It halts and stops at the best parts. I am too lazy to whip it into shape. Instead, I indulge and abandon my writing pen. No wonder I can't write **** anymore.

6

I ***** onto the page and it is poetry

0

Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC

Hungover

I ***** onto the page and it is poetry

2

There is a tree on the street corner all twisted and stunted and ugly sitting on an empty lot surrounded by hot asphalt and car horns. But every year at Christmas it is strung up with lights, and in February it is given one lone, glittering heart. I see it on my way to the cafe after a drunken night of revelry and I wonder who on earth would decorate this lonely dead tree in this dead little town? I stole a pen in order to write all this down and despite all that effort I left my little poem on a table in a cafe. I struggle to recapture my words again It's much harder when you're sober. I am obsessed with that tree on the street corner twisted and stunted and beautiful.

0

Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC

1

There is a tree on the street corner all twisted and stunted and ugly sitting on an empty lot surrounded by hot asphalt and car horns. But every year at Christmas it is strung up with lights, and in February it is given one lone, glittering heart. I see it on my way to the cafe after a drunken night of revelry and I wonder who on earth would decorate this lonely dead tree in this dead little town? I stole a pen in order to write all this down and despite all that effort I left my little poem on a table in a cafe. I struggle to recapture my words again It's much harder when you're sober. I am obsessed with that tree on the street corner twisted and stunted and beautiful.

21

The world is ending today, the sky is falling in clumps. It was just a bunch of LEGOS after all. Nobody sees it but me and I am alarmed.

0

Nov 5, 2014

Nov 5, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC

Legos