wrt handstands and schoolyard acrobatics

i was seven when i learned

to fear how hard the earth would be

if i fell

Today was a good day, but...

I have not quite burned down this house

let’s call it a coat that I have hung up in the summer months

a house feels too large

and too final a thing

and I fear that winter will find mind me

and I will be all to ready to drape myself in old sorrows.

Day 2- Write a poem that addresses at least one other poem and/or poet by name. You might imitate, parody, disagree with, champion, or generally respond to the other poem and poet.

I chose A Good Day  by Kait Rokowski

always in the quiet hours (22 sept 2014)

at night i ask
when will i relearn to love myself
in the quiet hours

lessons i have yet to learn

(22 July 2014)

Things that start with
"maybe if I"
and end with
"then I will feel better'
rarely ever work.
Happiness will not come from someone else's touch
there is nothing and noone
you can put in your mouth
or on your body
that can bring you joy.

27 april 2014

self-loathing:
i find myself
relieved when vile men can
still find this expanse of flesh
appetizing

Ethos

I always stay too late.

I am always the last to leave,

The one left to taste the soured wine

Passed in frantic effort

To regain the spirit,

Get burnt by the embers

Of hysterical bodies

Trying to rekindle the longspent fire.

Last to leave

And first to come off that high

Brought on by either ethers or ethos

First to sniff the stale smiles that linger in the air

Long after the fleeting fancy

That brought them has left.

I always leave too late,

And as I totter home,

I am always emptier in the dying hours

Drained from the effort of trying to live.

Mania

I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight

Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical

And I love and I love

And I give and I give

Until like like a well loved toy

My skin is worn thin

And my entrails spill out from the seams.

And the pounding ratatatat tattoo

of my heart whipped into frenzy

is calmed by the panicked coda

of my hyperventilations.

We all have our lows.

Impotency

Stagnancy-bred frustration

Angry at what I wanted to do but didn’t

What I didn’t do but could have.

Listlessness taints everything,

Even my rage is impotent.

Frustration

I’ve been feeling it so long

I’ve forgotten it’s name.

It comes and it goes,

Like the tide

With its ebbs and flows,

Like the moon

It waxes and wanes,

It is never really gone,

Just lingering behind sight,

Lulling with monotony

Like waves crashing

Against the shore,

Till I’m waist-deep

In despair, waiting 

To cycle out.

Insomnia

They promised that insomnia

Would bring words

Like long awaited rain,

But instead it

Keeps you awake too late

With your distractions

And makes you miss your thoughts,

Then sleep long enough

For the days

To seem one.

Insomnia only brings

Diversions,

Frivolity

And agitation,

And when that

Wears you out,

A sleep too black

For thought to thrive.

Insomnia doesn’t bring rain;

It is the storm grey

Cloud that teases

And threatens,

Then flitters away

Whispering promises

To come another day.

Days Like This

Days like this are the worst.

Days where I stumble around

In states of undress;

Listlessness has made me hot.

Days like this I wish

I’d taken up smoking.

At least it would give me

Something to do

With my hands,

My mouth,

My lungs,

Least the Devil

Seeks to employ me

With his other idle souls,

While I wait

For the universe,

Fate,

Destiny,

To figure out what to do with me...

Days like this are the worst.