"flatness" poems
Tissue Paper Snowflakes
like tissue paper snowflakes i
break easily
i
get caught up in notions of things like love
and days like tomorrow
and promises like tattoos dyed into the skin of lovers
stuck in memories like first dates and love notes and make up ***
like tissue paper snowflakes you
are unique
you
are one of a kind.
in kindergarten they told me no two snowflakes are the same
even though probabilistically speaking
you are almost guaranteed to have a twin.
like tissue paper snowflakes you
want to be cold
you
want to be but don’t have the strength.
you could not support the weight
that is frozen water
that is imperviousness to nonphysical things
like longing and sorrow and elation
and things unlike make up ***
like tissue paper snowflakes i
am deceptively fragile
i tear
from things that are crushing
like dreams
and lies
and arms wrapped tightly.
i weaken from over use,
i ignite from things that overheat
like cigarettes
and us.
like tissue paper snowflakes we
are from one sheet
we
once bled together
our crooked edges match to form
straight lines.
like tissue paper snowflakes we
found beauty in ordinary roots
we
created texture from flatness
and
complexity from things that were not complex
and
like tissue paper snowflakes
we are weakened only by our own accord.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
If my thoughts are my eyes and my mind is Paris,
then you are my Tour Eiffel
penetrating that flat sky line of the buildings all the same uniform height, without change or dynamics,
you protrude out of the flatness, the beautiful change of scene, the epicenter, of wonder.
my wandering eyes always find you
no matter where I am, who I am with,
or what I am doing,
I can always find you above the bustling city
a separate entity
Of hope, and love, and change
Before, Paris did not have the tour Eiffel, but continued to bustle as any city does
still the city of love,
It was missing it's determining factor, it's monument that stood out from all the rest
The landmark that completed the city, that created a place of wonder to surmount all the world, a watching over every building, every garden,
every thought
The last thing I see when rest my head on my pillow,
your shining light fills me with wonder and inspiration as the moon rises in the sky: creating wishes and hope for the future
You always penetrate the corners of my mind
My shining Tour Eiffel
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Boredom #2
I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”
Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.
A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.
Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..
A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.
In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!
Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
IS THIS WHAT PERFECT LOOKS LIKE?
Skinny legs, bigger *******
Is all they want to see.
Flawless skin, tiny waists
(Obviously) the opposite of me.
Beautiful is thin
And if I starve myself,
Beauty is what I win.
People said, beauty is about the
Size of the ******* the colour of the skin,
The flatness of one's stomach
In weight and fashion look.
To me, there's only one beauty.
The one wherein you're contented;
Where you learn to accept and love
Your own beautiful you.
Imperfections, mistakes, flaws and all,
The beauty that really matters
Lies in our hearts, our core;
Cleansed by good conscience.
Because when you love what's in your inside,
You yourself will love what's outside even more.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
WARNING: THIS IS EXCEEDINGLY EXPLICIT...
(when for a pinpoint (the exact moment) i am nurses sift home again EKG's
it all went wrong
CT scans on the timeline
i will repeat this then i am whole again
i will defeat this hole again)
when I first
there was had in my stockings caught it something about the small red, i did not believe it. them like cardboard, and ******* now i, caught saw it, my ****** high heels, i did not believe it. them kunts like cardboard as a child i loved
and the great swan **** with a straight razor, hot water, shaving cream
dragging these white are in four directions ******* my *** hows my ***** sheets me with a ***** and licking she said
for another my thick dark ***** juice colors my arms have too many carry the face of emptinesses i **** me *** tongue on shooting that i did not look
regarding my *** me blow jobs with **** *** in attention. cannot help what wet ***** happens in me pink ****** fingers will happen without smiling attention. I ripped dripping my bra off ******* off i do not think so. i do not think so. the moon's concern is with my ***** ******* hard. **** me **** me with the particles of destruction
i **** up. am i my **** a pulse hard and swallowing
lick my ***** loved its perfections **** is my dead self one that **** could is not flat only be perfect such flatness cannot make a heaven i am not ugly. i am even beautiful.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
I laid on the cold hard floor,
feeling the chops of air
as they spun from the ceiling,
escaping the mass of my body;
finding refuge in my arch,
my natural resistance
to flatness.
And I was watching,
stalking myself from a distance,
but all that was seen
was my cardiovascular essence,
pulsing on the ash-ridden floor,
until I cascaded,
washing;
falling below to My Earth's
very core.
I was watching and laying,
and falling,
but when all had occurred, I remembered:
My Self is not merely a body,
a skeleton breathing out words,
but a soul and a spirit and presence,
and that is what ought be preserved.
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
***Prairie wide angle
skydome over vast flatness
top down...
Mountain peaks reach
interrupt skydome with ******
bottom up...
Mountains and Prairies
teach crucial lessons
interlaced perspectives...***
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
I am so sick of this smog,
(And the plane has only just landed).
Gray and gold, it smothers the city;
I already miss cotton-ball clouds
In a sky that is blue, just blue,
Floating.across flat green fields filled
With yellow-topped corn and spindly windmills.
The flatness is immense here,
But clotted with a wreck of suburbia,
Boxy ranches and sudden apartment buildings.
Instead of a harvest, the backyards are filled
With cement and fetal-curved swimming pools.
Every bit of it looks about to crack
Under all this weight.
The palm trees that used to look exotic
And spark my mind with other people’s sold memories
Of India, Siam, and Hollywood,
Are now tacky, too tall,
Hovering over the highway wall.
They look like a locust infestation.
Even the white windmills
Seemed more benign, their blades
Whipping around and around
As if they were ready for a fight.
Ten months is too long for LA,
But it would probably be too long for heaven, as well.
So when I settle for good,
It will be in a house
With a winter view of the river,
A highway drive from the city.
This valley, though sometimes empty, is filled
With both silence and cement,
Sunshine and snow and thunderstorms,
And the only house that matters,
With a winter view of the river.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
As an IU Bloomington student,
I frequently made the drive back to
the fraying rusty fringe of Chicagoland,
the land of greasy-dappled gyro joints,
of Italian Beef, and Italian Sausage,
and Italian Beef and Sausage.
Some described it as one of the most boring drives
in America, lamenting the flatness and unvarying
scenery, but I always drove it under the shroud of darkness.
Nine Inch Nails, My Life With the Thrill **** Kult, and
the Revolting ***** spilled through the stereo.
Al Jourgensen growled his strange Rod Stewart cover,
his ode to crack-cocaine, and his heavy industrial soundtrack
that makes you feel tense, like a prime time victim show.
As the aggressive beats and resonant past washed over me,
I realized my cozy hometown offered comfort
but could sustain no credible
fantasies of the future.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
Everything is wrong about, not in sync, so dysfunctional, your hair reeks of pink
From the tips of your silly red shoes, to the very top of your dry, dreary head
I can't stand you, even the sight of you
Your beady hazel eyes that sink of flatness and superficiality
Only glinting when you mock humans galore,
Your voice needs to be beaten, your mouth sewn shut sore.
I can't stand you, even the sight of you
Your pathetic frame of 5'11'', acting as though you're a 6 foot beast
You have nothing to use to please.
I've seen your **** there's not much there, besides pudgy ***** hair.
Pink little head and useless *********** desiring to stick it wherever
But never thinking about actions.
Silly, unnerving, a warped mind.
Have you ever looked in the mirror?
I may not be perfect and there may be more to eyes and spies,
But the way you speak forms a body so vapid and impure,
It surprises me you even think you're justified for little less, forget about more.
Vapid, shallow
Eyes carved by doughnuts and *********** sites
You want double Ds and hairless vulvas,
Aren't you reaching?
Pathetic.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
Sometimes wonder if I have synesthesia
Or something like it
Cause for me I associate colors and animals with people
Cause I see time as a map in my head of memories and images of greenery and snow and memories of my life instead of seasons so that I can cycle through the hours of a day in class periods on weekdays viewed as memories of the class, and walk through the past which takes a sharp left at the year 2000 and from there on the flatness of the millenial years drops off into a sloping textbook
Cause sounds and words have textures on my tongue, notes tickling my taste buds as they spill out
Cause I can taste electricity which has a surprisingly dead flavor
Cause I can describe colors with texture and it makes perfect sense to me even though my friends say it cannot be done
Because if I don't, I don't know what the hell to call this
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
We place our wishes
in the canines
of spackle.
Above us the teeth
wait
to be broken.
While we watch
the Dog Whisperer
breaking
mustangs,
I wrap my arm
around the eternal flatness
of your shoulder.
We say nothing,
we don't even whisper
as our dreams fall around us,
in an automatic spray.
I get on the coffee table,
to fix the fan.
You arc your neck
around me,
like a diamondback
you coil until you feel the heat
of the tv in your eyes,
on your cheeks,
on your lips.
As you watch Cesar
more than me,
I dust our dreams off
of the fan.
I am a sculpture
that you must break your neck to get around
as I fidget with the monkey wrench.
There is nothing eternal,
we burn our love
like shoots of wheat,
so much beige grass
extending over your shoulder
into forever.
What kind of dogs
are we?
The ones that no longer
know the plains
of each others' fur,
the fire in our teeth,
the sun of each others' eyes,
the rain of our lips.
There is too much heat between us,
too much dryness now,
not enough calcium raining
from basalt clouds.
What I'm trying to say,
is that I do not explode
like a force of nature,
I am rock.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Reach and fail
Reach and
fail,
Coming to terms with who is who
And what is what
What gifts have been given
What gifts will never be delivered
Where the darkness reigns
Where the light rains
Where love remains
Coming to terms with the four white walls,
What is projection?
What are delusions?
What is truth and beauty?
What is it
we are grateful for?
Each step taken
One step forward
Two steps back
Honing
Moaning
Calling out into the night
Looking for the dawn
With words that
Pitter patter -
Tears that are wet for a moment
but evaporate on the floor -
Calling out
"come on, come on -
Give me some
At least one more time"
In this awkwardness
In these limitations
Of vocabulary
In the flatness of these
Rhythms and rhymes
While others create spaces
and lines
Pieces expanding to the skies
Maybe even a little bit more than
wise - touching the divine
I'm
Twisting and falling
Holding on
Coming to terms with who is who
and
What is what
Still gotta try to find
the true poetry
One more time
One more line
Gotta do it
Before I really die.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Sock-less in the winter turned
spring for fear of
freezing over
every inch of
things you treasured and
couldn't wait to leave behind
just months to go and
still
no snow-white to
build upon blazes
that come with new faces
and
kindle friendships as
roads are
dubbed exceedingly dangerous
time is a friend to those who
tri-p-let their way to the flatness of
it all, world and walls waiting
for a
break in the traffic
waiting for a sunspot in the year's
star mural,
wandering in parking
lots where people hint at that
mysterious intersection of dreams
and the sensory
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
Across expanses far and flat
The freezing wind doth howl,
Through desolation cold and harsh
No sign of beast nor fowl.
No feet have trod these arid lands
No eyes have sought a path,
No heart has longed to venture here
No settler built a hearth.
Far horizons curve the flatness
Cold stars spray the sky,
Freezing diamonds in the blackness
Crescent moon hangs high.
Sleet and snow and driving rain
Assault in winter’s bleak,
Whilst blazing sun and baking wind
Prevail in summers fleet.
Grasses blow in rolling waves
As far as sight can see,
And cobalt skies of burnished blue
Are cloud and eagle free.
Sand grains blowing, heaping, rolling
Dusty dunes do form,
Moving west in steady flow
Sand waves without a storm.
Silent, silent, shrill and silent
Wind’s persistant howl
Shreiking in the rolling grass
No trace of beast nor fowl.
Far horizons defy logic
Something in the dark,
Huge and vague a shadowed something
Ghosts from Ancients hark.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
4 May 2009
Jan 8, 2010
Jan 8, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
I’m lying on a beach, sun-punched subconscious
not too hot as a briny breeze still blows ashore,
but warm and melted onto the ground
like candle wax spilled over
nearby recumbent girls, unmoving as statues,
**** Aphrodites raised of sand and sea foam
splay across loose opened chitons
unfurling scents of oils and lotions,
awaiting their animation from kisses of salt mist
or ocean tide come in too close
they’d vanish by next glance
lost in minutes or hours passed
the impressions they’d left filled with glistening sparkles,
constellations of miniature stars fusing
then extinguishing by pairs to gray flatness
ascendant on gulls' laughter, wind-stretched,
entangled among broken waves
in an endless silk scarf god once made
but left behind in his dream at dawn
when light then carved each grain its shape -
this beach for me to sleep on
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:14 AM UTC
Six:
standing for prayer
the corner of the school desk
thrice daily finds me
flatness and hardness,
and the fluorescent lighting
heavenly verses
it’s tuesday morning
forgive us our trespasses
and I’m told to chant
Nine:
*horseback riding is
a wonderful thing for girls
it builds self-esteem*
trail rides through the scrub
learning skills in the outdoors
Palomino flanks,
hard leather saddle
rolling, dazed, back and forth and
sweating in the heat
Twelve:
vaseline vignettes
of slick and dewy couples
raw, tanned romance, all
in rapid Spanish
the love in Latin Lover
is jacuzzi steam
all we can do is
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh, and watch them
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Unwinding comes upon you.
Out here, your ******* mute the flatness as they rise ungathered....
Breathing for the first time
Silence.
You can't imagine South Africa
You vaguely recall your white brothers
herding your black brothers
into Desperate quarters.
Building separate but disheveled lives
According to the color of their Skin-
Beating your black sisters down
and out of their bodies
To become statistics, to become stains...
To become a dream
you are having in the desert.
Dissolving comes upon you.
Out here, your eyes feed
they fall over the the vast undisturbed evidence
Of God's womanhood, rejuvenating your actuality...
Populating yourself with your Self.
For the first time.
Silence.
And you can't imagine America.
Who can? With it's sweet liberty
And pill grim's pride
Eclipsing every mountainside with billboards
Bright and Wide-
Pointing the way to the next city
you can't find a job in, because you're too old, or too gay
Or too real...
Too bad.
That flag has fifty stars. No Light.
You partially grasp a diluted vision
of having a vision,
replete with Ideals, Shadow Governments and Human Rights but...
Slowly, all that's fading now, to become poetry
To become headlines, to become a dream-
You are having in the desert.
And out here, there are Indians
holding onto something Intangible-
Like deep purple and stray dogs.
Babies being born and weaned on Truth.
And you For the last time
Silence.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
I never understood why your lips were confined,
To the uninviting flatness of a line.
Or why your presence was lost,
In mundane routine and apathy.
I thought maybe you didn't enjoy my company.
I didn't know if your smiles and laughs were real;
They seemed so ephemeral,
Like stifled strikes of resistance ,
Against your solemness.
When I began to burden the weight of knowledge,
I finally understood the safety of the guaranteed.
When they dismantled your family,
And starved you to emaciation,
You forgot what faith was.
You forgot what love was.
And you forgot the impact you could have on others.
But you would never forget what work was.
Your perseverance accounts for my existence.
For that you are unforgettable.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
"It's alright, you can cry?" She looks listlessly at her reflected shadow. There's nothing on her mind, every cloud of thought has left the gray skies of it. She feels like a desert, barren and almost lifeless. If she could cry she'd cry the oceans in to existence and drown the earth in her sorrow.
But she cannot. That's the real tragedy. Nothing disturbs her. All she can do is stand there not quite sure how to express the endless grief that leaves her like a carcass. A decomposing body without a soul, without the breath and sentiments of life.
"You can cry." She repeats to the rippling water in the lake. Her distorted, ever moving mirror where she does not quite recognize herself in. It's impassive in its tranquility.
If she were a song she'd be a broken melody in a dusty music box. Forgotten and replaced.
You can cry, she remind herself in the middle of a night as darkness hangs upon the sky. As it clings to her like Death weighs on her shoulders and violates her through the pores of her dry skin.
Of course, she never does.
She drifts in the open abyss of a tempestuous ocean waiting for oblivion.
She drifts,
she drifts,
she drifts...
No dreams.
No sinking feeling of demise.
Waiting for the lighthouse in the distance but all is bathed in the shadows.
There's not consolation of sandy shores somewhere on the distance.
Cry, she begs herself laying on her bed ready to succumb to sleep. Closes her eyes and opens them to shadows. Obscure and never ending. The darkness is ubiquitous, the only God that has not yet forsaken her.
She walks a few miles in the flatness of the dark land but there is no point to her direction for all is desertion. So, she stands in the lightness of the black.
Sometimes, her young self hides behind her back, wearing white and glancing ahead. She looks back at herself and wonders what the she can see. Her dress and hair fluttering gently by an invisible breeze, countenance straight and strong, never looking at what should be in front. After, she walks barefoot in to the darkness and disappear as by enchantment.
You can cry.
you
can
cry
But, in the darkness of her mind and her room
The tears don't fall
And her affliction is obscured
darkness never seemed so profound
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Steps for Life:
1. Wake up and brush your teeth twice and use mouthwash.
Make sure your teeth are pearly white.
Floss so your teeth don't rot with grim.
2. Drop in some eyedrops,
so no one can see that you cried.
3. Choose your clothes.
Don't choose something that isn't name brand.
Don't choose something that's ugly or unflattering.
Wear your waist trainer so that your waist can be thin and your
stomach is flat.
4. Get your makeup together.
Wear the right color eyeshadow, make sure your lashes long enough,
make sure you choose the right color to match your outfit.
5. Pick the right shoes.
Choose the heels that are in season.
It doesn't matter if they aren't comfortable you have to wear them to
be cool.
6. Go to school
Go to school and suffer.
Hang out with the popular kids.
Be rude to other girls and criticize them for not having the money to
afford clothes like yours.
7. Come home.
Lift a few weights to keep your arms thin.
Swallow a nasty concoction and have dinner so you can rid of it.
8. Repeat for the rest of your life because you won't ever be good enough.
To a girl, why is life about the size of your thighs?
The thinness of your waist.
The color of your eyes,
The color of your skin.
The flatness of your stomach
The shape of your jaw.
The length of your legs.
The way you walk and whether or not you fall.
They hid the pain.
Because pain is beauty.
And beauty was all that matters.
The biggest goal is to be popular but to be popular you have to be liked.
No one likes an unattractive girl.
No one likes a girl who isn't pretty.
To be popular, to awesome to other people, to be cool,
You have to make yourself suffer from the pain that is beauty.
You can't eat anything you want if you do you'll gain weight and you'll be fat.
You can't eat all 3 meals because you'll get fat. Instead, you have to eat a bit for some energy but then force it all back up because too much food will ruin your flat stomach and no one likes a girl who's fat.
You can't eat certain foods because it's messy and people see your face being a mess than say goodbye to your popularity because no one likes a messy girl.
You can't join certain clubs and you can't get straight A's. This is because no one likes a brainiac girl or all the other fantastic words.
You can't wear sweatpants if you aren't required too. Sweatpants aren't flattering and if no one likes you then neither should you.
You will suffer in silence
Because everyone thinks that you're fine.
You have to follow a strict diet or else your popularity will die.
No will see the cuts on your thighs because that's the only place they won't show.
You can cut your shoulders, your wrist or stomach but people will see and think of you as a depressed emo and no one wants to be seen with that freak.
Society has girls be trapped in a box where they follow the same horrible routine.
Inspirational people say that the box is paper and you can just break it to be free.
If the box is paper why am I so weak?
Why can't I break it?
Those inspirational people are wrong.
The box isn't paper.
It's stone.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
I feel a vibration, deep in my bones
as if my being was composed
of coiled metal springs;
pushed down,
and down,
and down,
compressed to an unnatural flatness
an undesirable rigidity
an unhealthy madness
and a post-poned delivery
but, under all the pressure
all the weight
under all the stressors;
I still vibrate.
a buzzing, whirring, and building imbalance
is this because of caffeine?
or time spent as an E fiend?
I must ask myself,
what does this buzzing mean?
is it hyperactivity,
a blocked chakra, or three
did I choose this energy
or did it choose me?
so I write to release,
to find inner peace
this pen my therapist
this page the couch
with each stroke I care less
and let go that inner grouch
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC