"practicer" poems
What’s the difference between escapism and avoidance?
“There isn’t one, they’re synonyms”
I used to think that too
Because I have been lying to myself for the past three years
“It’s just a quick break”
“I’m just winding down and then I’ll get things done”
And yet
Night after night
I find myself lying in bed at 1:30 am
Staring blankly at my phone
Watching anything I can get my hands on to escape
And scrambling the next day to get anything I avoided done
I think that I’m simply just escaping into another world
To take a break from reality
When really I’m avoiding everything that I need to get done
I’ve been lying to myself for 1128 days today
Because I cannot get myself motivated to do anything
I tell myself that I'll get it done in a minute
But I know it won't be done until weeks after it was due
I thought it was simply just escapism
But I am a devout avoidance practicer
There is a difference between escapism and avoidance
Because escapism is a temporary break to set your mind straight
And avoidance is escaping everything at any cost.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC
This, that on conception and analysis
Seems easy and appropriate
On practice is worst
Than being tortured as a prisoner
To admit the truth
Feels like experimenting the literal bleeding
Of the most important ***** in one's body
And once task completed
It feels like the worst has been done
By the practicer.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
At last I was free
From under her spell
I said to myself
Climbing out of the well
But a strange feeling
Came into my head
As I mulled over the words
That I had just said
I wanted to go back
With or without the curse
Whether it was stockholm syndrome
Or something far worse
So I climbed back down
To the young witch's lair
Who despite her occupation
Was beautiful and fair
I explained my position
As she listened with surprise
Or so I thought
As I looked in her eyes
After hearing my request
To stay by her side
She seemed to break down
And nearly cried
She said she was no witch
Just a practicer of magic
But her skills were lacking
And her results quite tragic
I felt for her I did
But she was young and sly
And I could not tell
If it was the truth or a lie
In the end however
I did not really care
She was my beautiful witch
And I'd follow her anywhere
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
It was many winter's later
I encountered the house again
on one of my strolls
down memory lane.
It was true
what folks said.
The house had died.
It stood there
like a badly cut-out
silhouette against
a sunset
a child's eager idea
of what a house
might or
should be.
It looked now
like a house
on a movie lot
all front with no back
leaning at an odd angle
to the universe.
Oh it had stood its ground
against time
but its history
had evaporated.
It was a house
no longer constructed
of children's laughter
or a never-to-be-
...forgotten summer.
As if all the excruciating
piano practicer
hadn't tumbled out of
its front porch window
to torture a cat or
the innocent passerby.
Or where a first kiss
had been stolen
by its fairy story
white picket fence gate.
It was supposed to be
pulled down
oh years and years
ago
but
her its stood
like a grisly warning
that even
human memory
can die
in time
...in time...in time. . .
I shed a sentimental
tear( oh my my )
feeling like a two-bit
actress
in a play
she was not
the heroine
of
or like a snotty nose child
in a wonky school orchestra
waiting
all the performance
through
to hit
that tiny triangle.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC