post apocalypse
My life is what I've made it -
I do not recognise it.
I've fallen between the borders of dream and reality
where both are become the same.
I wake every morning to the dreamscape
and walk through daylight when I close my eyes.
I'm curious and suspicious of the letter box,
will it contain a million dollar prize,
or notification of ten thousand in unpaid taxes.
If mail addressed to me is pushed through the slot
does this mean I'm real?
I cling to people as something tangible,
diamond-shaped slats of sunlight when I close my eyes.
I see people I loved, who've died,
all the time. I miss them, but even more
I miss the people still alive
who I'm forbidden to see any more.
I don't understand this.
It makes my relationships unfinished
like the poems in my notebook -
one and a half strophes trailed off
into blank white space,
like all the projects I lost interest in
along the way - like Nicholaus Steno -
easily bored, restless.
I have three books I'm halfway through.
My mother said I never finish anything,
but I'll finish them all.
There's only one book I've never finished.
If my mother was wrong about that,
could she have been wrong about other things?
Maybe I'm not 'lazy,' 'useless,' 'dirty,'
'like my father' after all?
If my mother's definition of me isn't true
then all the parameters of my life are shifted.
I must redefine myself:
set boundaries, get spiritual,
become self-actualizing, have a career
with achievable goals,
read horoscope daily. I'm 48
and still don't know who I am
or what I want to do with my life.
I feel time pressing against me
always. Maybe
if I go back to bed and close my eyes
my dreams will become tangible
and all that I have lost,
all the loved who've moved past my reach,
will return to me.
I do not recognise it.
I've fallen between the borders of dream and reality
where both are become the same.
I wake every morning to the dreamscape
and walk through daylight when I close my eyes.
I'm curious and suspicious of the letter box,
will it contain a million dollar prize,
or notification of ten thousand in unpaid taxes.
If mail addressed to me is pushed through the slot
does this mean I'm real?
I cling to people as something tangible,
diamond-shaped slats of sunlight when I close my eyes.
I see people I loved, who've died,
all the time. I miss them, but even more
I miss the people still alive
who I'm forbidden to see any more.
I don't understand this.
It makes my relationships unfinished
like the poems in my notebook -
one and a half strophes trailed off
into blank white space,
like all the projects I lost interest in
along the way - like Nicholaus Steno -
easily bored, restless.
I have three books I'm halfway through.
My mother said I never finish anything,
but I'll finish them all.
There's only one book I've never finished.
If my mother was wrong about that,
could she have been wrong about other things?
Maybe I'm not 'lazy,' 'useless,' 'dirty,'
'like my father' after all?
If my mother's definition of me isn't true
then all the parameters of my life are shifted.
I must redefine myself:
set boundaries, get spiritual,
become self-actualizing, have a career
with achievable goals,
read horoscope daily. I'm 48
and still don't know who I am
or what I want to do with my life.
I feel time pressing against me
always. Maybe
if I go back to bed and close my eyes
my dreams will become tangible
and all that I have lost,
all the loved who've moved past my reach,
will return to me.
posted by burning moon at 2:33 PM
4 Comments:
As the song says, the most interesting people I know are in their 40's and still don't know what they want to do.
Stay away from the horoscope though,
*shudders* dark magic that shit.
Excellent write kid, all of it, that personal exposure you do so well.
You give the reader yourself on the page.
Thanks. I'm trying to make myself be more honest. Write the things I'm uncomfortable to admit. I think those squirmy places are often the ones where we connect most strongly with readers. Hard to do though.
I'm not entirely comfortable reading this. Pris thought I should rewrite it with more imagery but that wasn't what I was after here. I wanted it to be very unembellished and stark.
There is always some discussion as to what really makes poetry, the giving, or the images, I alway lean toward the giving I guess.
The rawness of it speaks to me.
thanks.
I think I often tend to lean on pretty imagery rather than actually having something to say, so I wanted to try and really have something to say for a change. I think that's why I'm writing so much less these days. Without leaning on imagery, I really have nothing to say, lol.
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