Wednesday, April 16, 2008

From a Dark Place, Unbidden

I feel.
Body present,
taking up too much space
as eyes pass unseeing over
ruined form.
I speak.
Words leaving lips,
the sharp sound of no one listening
is all that returns.
I lean into relentless winds,
the storms of other lives
until eroded walls wash away
and I no longer recognize my own.
I move inward,
searching for a spark
a mark that proves I'm here.
Only cold echos spiral upward
growing louder, undiminished

and I don't care.
She's no longer there.


flutter said...


Lara said...

That was not really bad poetry as your label implied.

It was really touching.

what flutter said up there ^^

we_be_toys said...

I said it when I proofread it - this is a damn good poem girl. Ole Julie Fay would be proud! I had no doubt of what you were talking about, and the images are very good in defining your sense of isolation. I'm a bit green around the edges, which is always a good sign of quality writing!

Question: is this written in a poem form because the people it's about would never read poetry? Or was your soul just bursting with pain-filled music? Inquiring minds and all that...

FairiesNest said...

I think it's good too! Great images and the feeling is very strong!

maggie, dammit said...

My God.

This is amazing.

we_be_toys said...

See? Even Maggie says its good, nay, "amah-zing", so I'm thinking you can loosen up and be proud of this one.

Revenant said...

Come on now. That was beautiful. Anyway the universe's worst poet was:

Paul Neil Milne Johnstone aka Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings:

The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.

Anonymous said...

Loved the bed story. I'd never have guessed that there was tantrum potential in there...

Stay away from the gamma rays - they do you no good!

- Dean

amanda said...

Sticking, this one is sticking with me.