Unstory

non-sense

 

 

The sky became darker on that day, I don't remember

the clouds...if they billowed above me in soft patches, some

streaking that solid bowl of blue or grey. I did'nt look up,

didn't ponder the existence of such things...maybe I was just

leaving it up to you.

 

I always found beauty in the smallest of things, running my

fingers over the soft moss. Flowers were delicate, their colors

bright against green and blue.

 

Maybe the world changed colors since then, someone must've

flipped the switch, I think I'm living in black and white.

A place where even mirrors won't capture the light.

 

I looked down at the ground that day, soft pallet of

brown and grey, dust flying over my raggedy shoes, holes

in the dirt. I think...I might have thought that you were

going to save me.

But then I saw that you were walking away, as the mist

curled around your form, liquid salt forming around your

shadow eyes.

 

I suppose that I stood there, arms hanging, eyes dull and

unchanging, the wind against my back...as if pushing me

forward. Don't walk away..please.

If it stung my eyes, I can't remember..just the harsh pavement,

rolls of heat emitting from black, stripes on the concrete.

 

These things just might be..non existant. Something no

one else could ever attempt to understand...fleeting. Everything is

blurred, the erosion of time engulfing

your image, that platform of stone in the

courtyard, where our feet would trample over rocks, cigarette

butts.

The world was an ashtray...full of burning embers and grey.

 

The telephone wires were twisted, ensared by the hungry grasp of 

 howling trees. Brick walls encrusted, sharp knives carving into

memories. Glass...broken liquor bottles coated,

crunching into the grass, dieing leaves.

I think for a moment maybe, I just couldn't breathe.

 

I never had a story, just some back drop of heat and

confusion...screaming in the distance. Do I know you.

Maybe, but I wouldn't really know. Every one has porcelain

faces, smiling ghosts. If I could touch your solid hands, taste

that tenderness of senses..is that senseless?

 

So I thought that things would happen to me, maybe I would

go some place, out there..the wilderness was always

bending either which way..different sceneries that

blended together, I didn't want them to be lines on the map.

 

I'll change my view of things, leave behind chalk side walks

and rolled cigarrettes burning in over flowing trays..empty

days boiling over into insomniatic

night falls.

 

I won't let it go...standing on your patio, with chaotic nerves and

blinking eyes.

 

But I'll be packing up my suitcase..if I even have one around here,

and even if I don't, just be sure I'm going some where...out there.

 

 

 

 

 

Let it go...

Well, yeah, They always tell me so.

 

Author's Note

"...and besides who ever heard of a happy poet?"

Reviews

[Aven]

hm, I did not expect this... it's almost like a novella... even though I prefer shorter and more "poetryish" poems, I can apreciate what you have done here... afterall, everyone have their own view on poetry, and the creativity has to come out, so well done. :)

[Bard Constantine]

A melancholy sigh of an unstory (like that phrase, by the way; I'll have to steal it sometime), I like how you retain the ability to express yourself so that even pain has a ring of beauty in your words. Unhappiness is a companion that grows on you, however, be careful not to be in his company for too long...

[Pax Analog]

This one gives the melancholy a context, an "unstory," the sense of the poet experiencing roots as chaos, and sometimes reaching out for driftwood.

There is an open universality to this too, a feeling that it speaks for every sensitive, beautiful, expressive young woman who draws a short straw on meaning from the family circle. It's tempting to say such alienation is a necessary rite of passage to individuate, but we're formed of many diverse factors.

This piece is touching and somehow connects to pieces of forgotten mood literature for me. . .Lovely like a willow tree.

[Poeticpiers]

Its all a matter of perception M lady You can choose t be miserable or happy
I am a poet and a cockeyed optimist

[Brad]

amen, sistah, this is like it is...like it shall be...like it will be...

[Coyote Poetry]

Poets can be happy. Need the ocean at their feet. A lot of time to think. Maybe time to talk to many people on the road or on a park bench. I feel lock-in myself. I need a long road trip with no destiny. Just looking for people tire of running in circles like rats or mice. A very good poem. I understand the emotion. I tell the young folks. Leave the credit cards alone. Save your money. Travel and experience life. When you are old and gray like me. You will wish you did. A excellent poem. Have fun and be safe.
Coyote

[Norma M Sutton]

Nice, a lot of mental imagery in every stanza.

[A.A.Romanczuk]

Beautiful...and yes, I agree with Your Author's Note...we feel things too deeply, notice things in too much detail to remain happy for long...Your poem is strong...and written..oh..almost like a story...it paints a picture...wonderful :)

[Ruth]

I admire the strength of your poem here love, the long lines only add more to decipher, for me :) I love this!
I adore the journey your poetry takes us all on!
Excellent!
xx