"fluctuates" poems - Hello Poetry

There’s something about you that makes me want to write bad poetry and half-assed short stories. Something about you that makes me want to take all my unspoken words and turn them into something beautiful, something worthwhile. You make me want to be an artist like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath; you make me want to create. Maybe it’s that blue wave that crashes down like an incoming tide on the beach— your eyes when you look at me in a certain way, in a certain light. Or maybe it’s the way that you say my name and then say all those horrible things that make me want to rip something open. Those words that rip me open. You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my head like lyrics to a bad pop song; I can’t erase them and the only way I can think of to cope with it is to write them down like a schoolgirl with a well worn diary. I think I might as well have hypergraphia. I am an unprofessional medical doctor with a pen, paper, and Word Document suffering from a form of verbal ***** because I can’t possibly think of a way to speak my mind. I think I would make a very good mute. I wish I lacked a voice box because then I wouldn’t have to be the one that has to say all the right, comforting things at the all the right times and all the right places. Sometimes it feels as if I’m being eaten from the inside out by some sort of paratrophic organism that sits atop my frontal lobe and dictates my life and fluctuates my anxiety and I can’t even think about some things anymore because of this nervous clench I get in my gut when I let my thoughts get too jumbled. But you—you make me want to write the most heartfelt and sappy sentences and you make me want to be more than just ordinary. You make me want to be extraordinary. I guess that what I’m writing is an apology in the shape of a few stanzas and a few metaphors. And this is an “I forgive you” for that night that we spent outside your house arguing over the stupidest of things, so stupid that I can hardly remember a single word I said to you. Nothing gratifying is ever painless to obtain and I want to be a fighter like Hercules or Alexander the Great. I want to be extraordinary with you.

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Sep 17, 2013

Sep 17, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC

taylor-st-onge

An Archetypal Editorial

There’s something about you that makes me want to write bad poetry and half-assed short stories. Something about you that makes me want to take all my unspoken words and turn them into something beautiful, something worthwhile. You make me want to be an artist like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath; you make me want to create. Maybe it’s that blue wave that crashes down like an incoming tide on the beach— your eyes when you look at me in a certain way, in a certain light. Or maybe it’s the way that you say my name and then say all those horrible things that make me want to rip something open. Those words that rip me open. You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my head like lyrics to a bad pop song; I can’t erase them and the only way I can think of to cope with it is to write them down like a schoolgirl with a well worn diary. I think I might as well have hypergraphia. I am an unprofessional medical doctor with a pen, paper, and Word Document suffering from a form of verbal ***** because I can’t possibly think of a way to speak my mind. I think I would make a very good mute. I wish I lacked a voice box because then I wouldn’t have to be the one that has to say all the right, comforting things at the all the right times and all the right places. Sometimes it feels as if I’m being eaten from the inside out by some sort of paratrophic organism that sits atop my frontal lobe and dictates my life and fluctuates my anxiety and I can’t even think about some things anymore because of this nervous clench I get in my gut when I let my thoughts get too jumbled. But you—you make me want to write the most heartfelt and sappy sentences and you make me want to be more than just ordinary. You make me want to be extraordinary. I guess that what I’m writing is an apology in the shape of a few stanzas and a few metaphors. And this is an “I forgive you” for that night that we spent outside your house arguing over the stupidest of things, so stupid that I can hardly remember a single word I said to you. Nothing gratifying is ever painless to obtain and I want to be a fighter like Hercules or Alexander the Great. I want to be extraordinary with you.