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#pileup
A decade from now,             My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want             To pick at anymore. I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to, And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken That wouldn’t know to look both ways, Causing a six car pileup, But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to. Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,             And ten years down the road             Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath             As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure             Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun. I don’t like to think about it, But I’ve entertained the idea That perhaps I will neglect my words,             Letting all the quatrains pass me by. Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:             With no periods             But a blank space                         Where your name should be. I’d like to think that someday             I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to, Not to fill this void I made When I handed out my consonance like candy             And scattered similes in the air like skittles             During that drought we had a while ago When everything was black and white And I thought everybody wanted A taste of the colors I’m made of. I like to entertain the thought that someday Someday             People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words             And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.             Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,             Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,             And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.             They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:             A passenger seat,             The floor by a bathroom,             A stairwell,             Under a tree. I know that some might try to find the cause of death. In fact, I know they will. But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth, The only meaning behind all my metaphors, I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much. When it hurt too much To just write- I love you.
0
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
kate-lyn
All That I'm Trying to Say
A decade from now,             My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want             To pick at anymore. I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to, And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken That wouldn’t know to look both ways, Causing a six car pileup, But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to. Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,             And ten years down the road             Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath             As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure             Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun. I don’t like to think about it, But I’ve entertained the idea That perhaps I will neglect my words,             Letting all the quatrains pass me by. Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:             With no periods             But a blank space                         Where your name should be. I’d like to think that someday             I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to, Not to fill this void I made When I handed out my consonance like candy             And scattered similes in the air like skittles             During that drought we had a while ago When everything was black and white And I thought everybody wanted A taste of the colors I’m made of. I like to entertain the thought that someday Someday             People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words             And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.             Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,             Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,             And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.             They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:             A passenger seat,             The floor by a bathroom,             A stairwell,             Under a tree. I know that some might try to find the cause of death. In fact, I know they will. But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth, The only meaning behind all my metaphors, I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much. When it hurt too much To just write- I love you.
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