Mother of God! I can't believe I wrote all this and with little editing between the original draft and the published version, and I belive I could have continued forever, because I was in the Zone having read the resource reference poem and trying to work similarly, but I had to say staph! It was a good writing excercise, I loved it and would like to try it again where I might dissect it into several different poems. Here's my #day25 prompt inspired poem-
They say don't begin writing like this-
but 'here goes nothing'-
from the mother of doing the opposite
always the antithesis to what is
expected of, a social puzzle really.
Oh now I've gotten to talking about myself?
Isn't this what life is all about?
You're the hero, the world moves around you
Galileo and the other guy and the church
were all wrong.not a competition, because time is
better spent doing better things, making one feel alive. Right?
What makes you feel alive? What makes me feel alive is
writing. Writing to you,
writing about this, is this vague?
What am I addressing? Who are you?
Questions are befuddling idiots,
but the answers are convicts on the run
spirited for an eternal race, like a marathon,
is it fun? No and all my sentiments are
reserved for- for what?
Nothing, I know nothing and everything
I thought I knew and here I am falling
on my knees, dripping blood and mud
coagulating the pavement,
Oh my legs, bracing with both hands
I come up ashore, saying "I need help"
and my flow is interrupted, microcosmic in this
vastness
Who came to answer the call?
I can't say because I don't
know myself, having lost worldliness
in the panic of the moment, too anxious
too soon.
But I am feeling what I am feeling
how do you decide that?
Like it is as easy as saying
the east wall of the living has to
be a certain shade of righteousness
the length of my hair has to be
the exact shade of depression.
The weather sucks up my emotion
as does my lung the air of summer
without a care as to what for and when
and if this does not bother you
then you should go see a someone
and choose the next slot for there's a
line of guests trying their luck under this roof
What kind of monologue is
this life that seems to go on
for long and as winding as
the highway to nowhere and will
continue till when the poet decides I die?
Are you done? No, I'm only pausing.