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Thursday, January 29th, 2004
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9:14p
I wish I had some beautiful, meaningful, soul-filled poetry to post upon this page, but instead, this is what you get:
Why is it that fresh-laid snow will muffle the sounds of footsteps
but will not silence choking sobs?
Why do we search endlessly for satisfaction
when, if we look closely, it’s right at hand?
How can we find our perfect mate
if we can’t even find ourselves?
How long does it take
to empty the lungs of every last breath?
When will we be allowed to give in to temptation
without being ridiculed by the world?
When will we learn
that perfection is only in the mind?
Who in this world is to say
when any man should live or die?
Who knows why the stars move
and we are lost in infinity?
Where can a person find Paradise
if they don’t believe in God?
Where is the end of the earth
if the earth is always round?
Why can’t we answer the questions
that anyone might ask?
How can our bodies live
while we are slowing dying from inside?
When will we be allowed to die
if medicine keeps us alive?
Who will we become
if we squander away our youth?
Where will we end up
if we choose to die right now?
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9:16p
Written in a fit of inspiration and random creativity, this is what my boring brain came up with:
where i fell through
stepped out today to see the world
took a breath and lost my hold
let go the ground
fell through the sound
down passages dark and cold
no light through lids tight shut did seep
only fear to numb the pain
of death defied
and hate replied
in a mind no longer sane
there's only dark to pierce the eyes
no walls for hands to touch
no up nor down
nor all around
no power with which to clutch
down tunnels to the end unknown
with horrors all around
this is the hell
to which i fell
when i suddenly let go the ground
nestled snug in pits of flame
it't not so bad you see
for i crave the fire
and love desire
which Satan bestowed on me
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9:16p
I wish I could say I wrote this, but in fact, it came from one of the best books I have ever read:
Once, on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung in on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Clause
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.
Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn’t think
he could reach the kitchen.
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