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Discussion Starter · #1 · (Edited)
I just quit therapy last week. I felt I needed to write something about that. So the following poems are more therapeutic than anything else, and are still pretty unpolished. They're also somewhat depressing.

The Way I Live
"So, you just want to be left alone, is that it?" - my therapist, on our last session

I've never felt that need, that yearning, to get better.
I just want to be left alone.
I see my life just stopping at some random point
Ending my tiny scratch upon eternity's rough stone.

I spend all my waking hours trying to avoid the world.
I hide my face behind dim computer screens.
I meet my best friends once a month, or less,
Our frail relationships becoming stretched and ever-thin.

But while in this interregnum, on the outskirts of life,
I let life's tumble throw me as it will.
So the occasional friendly places, and unexpected loving faces,
Make it all worth living for - just to feel this rare, joyous thrill.

Exposure

I should keep my eyes open, so that the world
Could look inside me and see what I cannot.
So all the babbling therapists, all the healing men,
All professionals, hacks, or any stranger with a pen,
Could look inside my mind and tell me what I am.
 

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that's really nice stuff, I forgot how cool poetry can be I haven't written any in so long. thanks for sharing
 

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yes thank you! I especially like the second one.
 

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Discussion Starter · #4 · (Edited)
Plate Tectonics

Thanks, Sophieness and Travo! :) I appreciate your comments.

I'm sure you've all heard about that earthquake today. I thought I might try to write a poem about it. Unfortunately, all I came up with is yet another poem about myself.


Plate Tectonics
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


As I digest my meal, I hear it on the radio:
A meaningless number between one and ten,
Far out on an alien logarithmic scale.
And then, and then,
Some other numbers, growing in an exponential rate.
I listen as I drop my fork upon my plate.

I swallow hard. I almost choke. I take a sip of water.
A tsunami in my throat races past food to my acidic gutter.
Within me is the rumble, is the shake, I am become the monster
The sudden bell of death unheard beneath the water.

Then it is gone, and I resume my meal.
But my mind is stormy, and I wonder, guiltily still,
Why haven't this tragedy, this unprecedented spate,
Made me do no more than choke, and drop a fork upon my plate.
 

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Good poem (and that one by T.S. Eliot is pretty good too...)
 

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Discussion Starter · #8 · (Edited)
Hey, thanks a lot for reading my stuff! I know it's not always the easiest to understand, and it's really not very good. Unfortunately I don't have the patience to come back and fix my poems after I post them...

Anyway, I've been trying to force myself lately to write more, but I only managed to write some pretty bad ones. The ones below are the least worse, I guess.
The first one started out as a seasonal haiku, and turned into something else. The second one is trying to describe my feelings while having lunch with my co-workers.


Winter

A tracking shot - the winter's clot
Of frozen cold is spread across
A starless night.

An actress walks. Her figure blots
The protruding branches of
The trees behind.

I close my eyes. This movie's plot
Is nothing but a silly lie.

Then why, when faced with scenes of wintry solitude,
Do I feel the need to cry?

Escape

Column, a tree is a column. Many
Trees are a green chaos, I cannot look
And comprehend it all, I look only
At this one tree. That is all
I can see.
Trucks pass beneath it, their noise
Embracing, their CO2 refueling this
Tree's life. At the other edge, this
Coworker talks about his wife.

More cars pass. I hide my mind
Inside my tree. He truly is
All that I can see. I abstain from
Idle chatter. I sustain
My silence. I
Protect my
Inner
World.

And then, one fervid day,
When, again, it's quite hot,
I'll quit this job,
And fall upon the green column of my words.
 

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I really like these, especially the rhythm in "Winter", and your changing of line length and common thread of trees in "Escape" (great last line!).
 

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Hi orwen!

I haven't been here in a while and I was just reading all your great poems. I really like Exposure and Escape and I agree with Ebeneezer -awesome last line! :yes

Lindsay
 

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Discussion Starter · #11 · (Edited)
Thanks Ebeneezer and Lynzee!
Nowadays I don't have a lot of free time left to write poems, or even to read this board, so unfortunately what I can write is even worse than usual because I don't have time to actually go and meddle with it until I'm ok with it.
But I'll post this one anyway, because it means something to me. See, one of my friends just called today to say his wife his pregnant and I'm feeling a bit bad. So I'm sorry if it's kind of bleak.


A Crayon Neverland

A four year old daughter. A red crayon. A paper.
Let's draw, she says. She's not my daughter, no.

Sure, I say. A crayon held between two pudgy fingers.
A wavy line. Not a red line of my own, no.

A second line at an uncertain angle, a pout.
Now you finish house, she says. It's not my house, no.

Two more red lines, straight. A door. A window.
Now stick figures of mom and dad inside. I do not draw their faces, no.

Now her mommy in the doorway. Smiling. Hugging. Kissing.
Affection and a childish love.
All the things that will never be mine, no.

For me -
A life of empty pages with no red crayons.
Just myself and just my bed to cry on.
 

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Poignant. I like the contrast between the innocent child and your sadness and the common endings of each stanza. My favorite stanza:
A second line at an uncertain angle, a pout.
Now you finish house, she says. It's not my house, no.
 

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Discussion Starter · #13 · (Edited)
Thanks again Ebeneezer & Melodyz! I appreciate that.

Now for something work-related. I just started working in a new place (I was sent there by my company). Unfortunately things aren't going very well. I feel detached and depressed. One of the reasons for it is all this...


Women Talk
There are three married women in my office. Their
Voices rise and fall as they talk
With their husbands on the phone
About the kids, talk
With each other
About the kids,
Stare at the pictures of their kids
Upon their monitors, their desktops, tacked to their
Boards and inside their wallets and inside their hearts and minds.

They never talk with me about the kids.
I just sit there and I stare at figures while I pretend to work.
Outside my mind people come and go. Shouts and greetings
Echo from the corridor. Other women come and go and talk
About the weather and their husbands and their new hair-do and the new boots
And about their kids.

I shout to myself, I am a kid. I whisper it
As I feel drowning in a sea of slight perfume smells
Swelling and abating as the women are coming and going and coming back.
I pull my creased shirt nervously, I look down at my
Deadbeat shoes. I am a kid. I sit and wait for them to
Chasten me.

But they never do. They just smile at me politely.
And I smile politely back.

There used to be a fourth woman who was sitting in my chair
Some time ago, and now I know they're thinking
Julie, where have you gone, who is this kid taking your place
Smiling confusingly and ignoring all our women talk.
 

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Great details in this one, very descriptive. I can relate to this. I'm in my 30's and nowhere close to having kids. In the situation you describe, I would probably feel like I was 10 again, my feet not touching the floor as I sat in the chair, hehe.
 

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Discussion Starter · #16 ·
Ebeneezer said:
Great details in this one, very descriptive. I can relate to this. I'm in my 30's and nowhere close to having kids. In the situation you describe, I would probably feel like I was 10 again, my feet not touching the floor as I sat in the chair, hehe.
Yeah, that was the general feeling I was trying to convey. I'm 30 myself and kids aren't even on the far horizon. Unfortunately, since I've written this poem nothing much has changed in my situation there, and nothing will probably change in the near future.
pollywollyxacto said:
I just finished reading your poems..I think my favorite one is....oh wow...I think I loved them all heh
:blush thank you!
 

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Discussion Starter · #17 · (Edited)
I wrote these two quick poems today. They're unlike anything I've written before, and I thought it would be nice to try something different.

The Weatherman

Milk the clouds for their scorn, reap the winds for all their fury,
Sweep the shards of edgy snow, stop the descent of the mercury,
Snip the hurricanes at the bud, parcel the separate drops of rain,
And bring it in to market, in ninety shrink-wrapped seconds,
Just after the evening news at ten.

The Weatherwoman

Her hair, today, is dyed a reddish tint,
So a sunset flares with every gesture of her head.
Her lips, today, are glistening, soft touch of peach,
So a summer orchard blooms with every syllable.

She moves across the brightly colored weather patterns,
A well-manicured prophetess in denim and tight shirt.
Her voice rings true as she prescribes "a coat - tomorrow!"
And as she genially flirts with the handsome anchorman.

I stare at her, transfixed and somewhat titillated.
But as she turns away I think I hear her say
"Have I studied climatology, touched the very face of heaven,
Just to be this potpourri of colors on display?"
 

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very original! I really like those a lot. :) I love how they are partnered together too.

some of the ones on the prior page convey such a poignant look at your feelings over not being involved in family life, almost brought tears to my eyes. the last one reminds me of someone in my class, the only guy in a class full of women and I think he feels left out of all the female stuff sometimes.
 

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Discussion Starter · #19 · (Edited)
Thanks again Sophie!
I haven't been writing anything much for a long time, I've been too depressed and tired lately.
I tried today to write something anyway and this is what I came out with.
The second one isn't about someone specific, just a general feeling I get about instant messaging.


Never-Spring

A piece of string in a forest stream,
Soaked wet, hard-knotted, shivering,
Spurred by the meltwater from its winter dreams
Into this frozen life of never-spring.

Divination

You turn up again tonight, and as we speak,
Every second line is sealed with faces, smiling and oblique.
They'll help transmute the unheard clutter of our keyboards into a happy streak
Of one-liners and kind barbs and wordy tricks.

Much later, when you're gone, I will decode the signs.
I will extract all smiling gods, and collect them in a line,
And, at a fortuitous hour, when all the planets are aligned,
I will beg them to reveal to me your true design.

The screen will fade to black, and then come back,
With all the smiling gods now turned to sadness.
And they will show me, in the spaces left between your words,
That cool detachment hidden in your exterior kindness.
 

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Discussion Starter · #20 ·
Lately it seems like my next best move would be to leave my parents' home. But I don't think I can do it.

Too Late

It will always be too late for me.
I will always be their home-struck child.
They'll go on buying food and giving money
Until they'll grow too sick and die.

I will always be so close at hand for them,
But in the living room they will rarely see my face.
I will forever be enclosed in this narrow room of mine,
My grimy keyboard clacking in distress.

My friends will always be telling me to leave,
Before it's all too late, they'll always say.
And all the other people, who will never ever know me,
Will always think I'm very very strange or gay.

But I will stay, always by myself,
Just a step away from their all-embracing arms,
Seldom talking, seldom joking, always brooding,
Working late and sleeping late and dying, dying, while alive.

Nights will see them fall asleep while in the living room.
And I will always tip-toe there, and in the lurid TV light,
I will stand before their sleeping faces, silent and unknowing,
And ask for their forgiveness for my existence in their lives.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this pointless haiku on my way to work.

Silence

The morning bus, familiar road.
A dead cat, guts spilled.
The silence is more profound.
 
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