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Literature Text
I am found wanting.
Every day a little more so, with chips
in the paint, creaks in the joints and the hair
wearing thin. Like an old rag doll, I swear
I've buttons for eyes and a smile of stitches.
They call me girl glitch.
They write stories about me, scribbled
in the margins of their pocketbooks,
about how I cried wolf - how I lied
about nothing in particular, and how
I've a heart with a hungering.
Though what for I am never quite sure.
There are too many things to think at once,
too many colours, too many sounds, pulsating
to the whir of a car crash hymn:
my last coping mechanism.
These are the dog days, when the worth
of each word is unearthed and I speak
in a litter of syllables, a clutter of vowels
desperately searching for solace, for love.
But even I can't translate the hypnogogic codes
I use to speak. Even I don't understand me.
.
And sometimes I wonder
if I wrote a letter to myself,
sixty seconds in the future,
would I know who it was from?
Every day a little more so, with chips
in the paint, creaks in the joints and the hair
wearing thin. Like an old rag doll, I swear
I've buttons for eyes and a smile of stitches.
They call me girl glitch.
They write stories about me, scribbled
in the margins of their pocketbooks,
about how I cried wolf - how I lied
about nothing in particular, and how
I've a heart with a hungering.
Though what for I am never quite sure.
There are too many things to think at once,
too many colours, too many sounds, pulsating
to the whir of a car crash hymn:
my last coping mechanism.
These are the dog days, when the worth
of each word is unearthed and I speak
in a litter of syllables, a clutter of vowels
desperately searching for solace, for love.
But even I can't translate the hypnogogic codes
I use to speak. Even I don't understand me.
.
And sometimes I wonder
if I wrote a letter to myself,
sixty seconds in the future,
would I know who it was from?
It has been so, so long since I've written poetry.
It feels good to be writing again. (:
.
Yes, this is completely autobiographical.
Make of it what you will.
It feels good to be writing again. (:
.
Yes, this is completely autobiographical.
Make of it what you will.
© 2011 - 2024 angel-in-pieces
Comments17
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I. so. get. this. ESPECIALLY the hungering of the heart. The too many sounds and colours and the writing to oneself also speak to me, although I feel I have come through this stage slightly and am living on more positive/solid ground than the feeling of this poem would suggest, but I can DEFINITELY say I've been there a vast majority of my life. I feel that I now live in a state more of anticipation than confusion and overwhelming pressures. I can totally connect to the intensity of emotions described in this piece.
Keep writing. It's love.
Keep writing. It's love.