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Browsing Tag: #poets
I wish I could hate himThat’s what the poems would sayIf the poets were honestBecause it’s too hardI don’t have the energyTo be ScarlettNor do I haveThe sensibility I can’t help my heartAnd it rarely helps meBut the poets will gather their willAnd their quillsAnd find a quiet cornerOr perhaps a bench under a willow treeTo bleed their soulAnd maybeIf they really meant itThey’d put rocks in their pocketsAnd walk steadilyTill they were over their headsDying beautifully And tragically Just like their poem said they wouldProbably the daffodilIn their lapel Wouldn’t even lose a petalAs they flung themselves off a cliffBut me?In a rageMy hair wild and unbound and unbrushedFlinging crockeryAnd maybe a high heeled shoeSpitting venomSo harshlyMy throat would be sore for daysHaving a plan that involvesKerosene and a matchbookFrom a bar calledThe Wayward ThistleAnd a knife clenched between my teethAnd yetI remember to be a ladyAnd so I sit placidly With my sonnetsWriting about unrequited loveAnd bourbon cherriesBecause peaches are overdoneJust like roses…
Poets Poets are Poets are supposed to be clingy And thoughtful And introspective And in love Poets are dreamy And indecisive And flighty And flakey Poets speak softly Poets are heartbroken And have sad eyes And wear their solitude like a badge Poets are willowy And wispy And don’t eat much Poets are lyrical Poets can while away an afternoon Just sitting in one spot Looking at a blade of grass Poets are made of secrets and whispers and stardust Poets have a disheveled appearance So at least I’ve got the hair right…
Talking with a friend today about this lady we know of who recently took her life. I asked what she did for a living because some careers have a high suicide rate. He didn’t know, but asked me if I’d looked her up on Facebook. I hadn’t. “She looks….kinda…different. Like a writer. You know?” I thought immediately of my hair, springing out all over my head in 16 million directions. I thought of my eyeliner, that I’ve never managed to conquer, and even if it looks decent when I leave the house manages to be smudged by the time I get to work. I thought of my glasses, that are perpetually spotted from who knows what. I thought of my clothes, how some days my pants are dragging the ground or my socks are inside out or I’ve wound up wearing two different shoes. Or earrings. “Yes, I know,” I replied dryly, flipping my hand to indicate my current appearance. “WAS she a writer?” “Well, no,” he backpedaled. “Well, I don’t think so. But, like, she just looked…I can’t put it in words.” “Unkept?” “No. Just…plain, I guess. Maybe homely.” “Was she a poet?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Because poets are tortured, you know.” He…
