as a human
I think I’ve gotten both better and worse
I have improved
and fucked up
my flaws have multiplied
and dissipated
I don’t know anything anymore
the size of my ego
once huge
is now s k ew e d
and I don’t know how to go
one way or another.
I don’t want to stay here
midway between nothing
and nothing else.
Category: Poetry (Page 17 of 20)
I didn’t die today.
What, that’s my inspiration
for writing poetry today?
I’m starting to wonder if there’s
something wrong with me,
but there’s no gaping hole
where my optimism should be.
Everything is intact.
Sometimes the kindest thing I can do for myself
is repeat over and over in my head
“This is not helping this is not helping this is not helping this is not”
When does poetry turn into the demented ramblings of a mad person?
But this is helping this is helping this is helping this is
People say life’s too short
to not have fun
but it’s also too long
to not have fun
so maybe life is the perfect length.
When people say “are you okay?”
what does okay mean anyway?
Is there one definitive definition?
Okay is defined as:
“satisfactory but not especially good”.
But what I would call satisfactory might
not be satisfactory for someone else.
Is my okay your okay?
If you were me, would you be okay
or would you be fading and waning
under the bright light of day?
Yes, I’m okay, but that doesn’t
really mean anything, does it?
Maybe instead we should ask
“are you good?” because good is
good, there is no doubt about it.
And if you’re obviously lying,
why does nobody ever say
“I don’t believe you”?
I might say I’m okay when I’m
feeling barely satisfactory at all,
but there is no confusion in good.
Though I sometimes wonder
If it sticks around like it used to.
This is helping this is helping this is helping
I never collapsed on you.
I tried really hard not to, and
I always found somewhere else
to lean, or to just fall over sideways.
I hate that I was the one to make
you worry, and I never go on guilt trips
so this is new to me, but I made sure
to buy a return ticket.
I’ll still never collapse on you.
I could lean on somebody new
but I’d just feel bad for that too,
eventually. I feel better telling myself
that I never collapsed on you
but a suppressed memory is telling me
that’s not really true.
I rarely collapsed on you.
I hope the roads are straight from here,
I hope the next year brings no fear.
I hope injustice will be wiped out,
so we’ll have nothing to be outraged about.
I hope for no blemishes on our landscape,
no more capsizing and everything shipshape.
I hope everything’s going to be right as rain,
and there’ll be only sunshine – no more pain.
I hope things go better than we could perceive –
but sometimes hope is just make-believe.
Happy new year. I’m a very happy and optimistic person, really… promise! Poetry just digs out the darker parts. I like to think of this simply as a realistic start to 2015.
thin clouds streak through the air
once white and untouched, now
made beautiful by a hidden
yellow benefactor
who watches from a distance.
feeling peachy, the pale blue
winter sky
blushes
and the sun knows it has completed
its best work of the day
right before
it dies.
How to practise
man’s search for meaning?
Join me –
I’m doing my best.
The limited amount of books i currently have here combined with my partner’s extensive collection of I.T. books meant that the only offering I thought I was going to have was my partner’s suggestion of the following:
Stephen King [presents]
OS X Support Essentials
I’m stuck somewhere between
an apology and a “fuck you,
this is the way it is” because
you are the way you are
with each other; there is no
look-in for me.
So why be surprised if I
don’t always turn up to play
second-string to your special
friendship? There is obviously
nothing you need from me
and that is nothing new.
The two most enchanting things you can do for me
are to use a semi-colon correctly
and to understand mine.
Written on Saturday 27th December, 2014 at 21:02
Every silence is diagnosed,
assessed for awkwardness.
Why can’t quiet be peace?
I am walking by a dark building
What’s inside is bad news.
Why must I always go in?
Self-exploration ensues.
What’s inside is bad news
But I can never just walk past.
Self-exploration ensues
But I don’t have all the answers.
I can never just walk past.
Why must I always go in?
I don’t have all the answers.
I am walking by a dark building.
Written on Tuesday 23rd December, 2014 at 23:01
OH MY GOD
I started off this poem asking why I always go inside the metaphorical dark building even though I know it’s awful inside, and saying I don’t know why I do this and that I don’t have all the answers to my questions about myself… and I ended the poem by answering myself – why must I always go in? because I don’t have all the answers, so I keep going back in until I find them. Holy crap, I’ve just accidentally figured out something about myself by writing a poem. I love that. I adore trying to psychoanalyse myself!
[This isn’t the best thing I’ve ever written, but I thought I’d have a go at writing a pantoum for a change, and I’m so happy with the result, not because it’s well-written, but because having some kind of revelation about myself through poetry is one of the best feelings ever!]
