#undergrad - Hello Poetry

Exultant from a few Tuesday night Adderall highs, strung out on sleepless Spotify, we retreat to your car, lighting a few bowls and I find myself in a mirror— lacquered eyes and speaker feedback lead me along the wall, fingers catching the telephone jack. You lower me slowly, cool, cotton sheets against my shoulders and while you kiss my ribs, I remember two nights ago—you fell asleep before I even unhooked my bra in a half-assed, half-dreaded, C+ cup effort. But I look at my black socks, chew my nails away, and drag the jagged lines along your spine, the textbook I don’t want to return. We’ve sat on loveseats for hours, days, crying over mediocrity, the –isms, drunken mistakes meant to haunt us long past under-grad. In class we discuss darkness, the psyche, and morality, but I just want to draw my uneven hearts in the margins.

0

Apr 12, 2020

Apr 12, 2020 at 9:37 PM UTC

b-wynn

Humanities

Exultant from a few Tuesday night Adderall highs, strung out on sleepless Spotify, we retreat to your car, lighting a few bowls and I find myself in a mirror— lacquered eyes and speaker feedback lead me along the wall, fingers catching the telephone jack. You lower me slowly, cool, cotton sheets against my shoulders and while you kiss my ribs, I remember two nights ago—you fell asleep before I even unhooked my bra in a half-assed, half-dreaded, C+ cup effort. But I look at my black socks, chew my nails away, and drag the jagged lines along your spine, the textbook I don’t want to return. We’ve sat on loveseats for hours, days, crying over mediocrity, the –isms, drunken mistakes meant to haunt us long past under-grad. In class we discuss darkness, the psyche, and morality, but I just want to draw my uneven hearts in the margins.

24

After years of attempting this craft, I still didn’t get it. I read it walking to class during undergrad. Back when Roethke described how nothing would succumb to death, not even dirt. But in time, I learned that it is a mere calling of truth. A slight manipulation of memories. A close reading of a scene where nothing really happens. A hillside of purple orchards shaking in the wind, then resting its petals against the earth. I learned that it is a foggy window seat in time catching the first leaf of autumn connect to wet pavement or catching two strangers, after a long day, undisturbed, quietly ********** in the privacy of their home, smiling at one another for reasons the world will never know.

0

Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC

jayharrispoetry

Poetry

After years of attempting this craft, I still didn’t get it. I read it walking to class during undergrad. Back when Roethke described how nothing would succumb to death, not even dirt. But in time, I learned that it is a mere calling of truth. A slight manipulation of memories. A close reading of a scene where nothing really happens. A hillside of purple orchards shaking in the wind, then resting its petals against the earth. I learned that it is a foggy window seat in time catching the first leaf of autumn connect to wet pavement or catching two strangers, after a long day, undisturbed, quietly ********** in the privacy of their home, smiling at one another for reasons the world will never know.

12

For every night we've spent sitting on loveseats crying about mistakes and burdens promising to haunt us for the rest of our under-grad, I could've gotten a humanities degree two years ago.

0

Mar 30, 2015

Mar 30, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC

b-wynn

Senior Year Killed the Syllabus Week Pt. 3

For every night we've spent sitting on loveseats crying about mistakes and burdens promising to haunt us for the rest of our under-grad, I could've gotten a humanities degree two years ago.

4