ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
June 23, 2012
THAT POEM (Writer's Block) by *winterkate best read aloud.
Featured by BeccaJS
Literature Text
I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull – not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This was the poem that I was going to write, this was THAT POEM – the thoughts
you were thinking in that last second before you let go of the trigger, only
better than you could've thought them, better
than I could've thought them, better
than anyone could've thought them. This was THAT POEM, the poem that doesn't so much come
from you as much as be ripped out by the screaming universe itself, when somehow for a second
you seem tuned to the right frequency & the language of winds & tides
makes sense. This was THAT POEM, the poem that lights like Semtex, like heroin, like
the dead dry crinkling vines scratching outwards
against the bottom of your ribcage, the ones you can feel poking you
when you breathe in too deeply
& remember where the scars came from. This was THAT POEM, the poem that falls
through the hollow spaces in our freezing, bird-thin bones
& clangs like a coin when it hits the bottom, showing us all just how deep
the wells of emptiness run. This was THAT POEM, the poem that reminds you
that there are worlds blooming on the spider-thin limbs of the Yggdrasil world tree
of your branching veins. This was THAT POEM, the poem that takes people off
sixth-floor concrete ledges, or else puts them there. I
was going to write THAT POEM, the last whistling words you would've heard
shrieking through your screaming ears
right before your blood paved the ground. I could taste it, I could taste it, I could taste
THAT POEM!
AND I WAS GOING TO WRITE IT!
But then I sat down to my computer & it seemed I didn't have the words.
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull – not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This was the poem that I was going to write, this was THAT POEM – the thoughts
you were thinking in that last second before you let go of the trigger, only
better than you could've thought them, better
than I could've thought them, better
than anyone could've thought them. This was THAT POEM, the poem that doesn't so much come
from you as much as be ripped out by the screaming universe itself, when somehow for a second
you seem tuned to the right frequency & the language of winds & tides
makes sense. This was THAT POEM, the poem that lights like Semtex, like heroin, like
the dead dry crinkling vines scratching outwards
against the bottom of your ribcage, the ones you can feel poking you
when you breathe in too deeply
& remember where the scars came from. This was THAT POEM, the poem that falls
through the hollow spaces in our freezing, bird-thin bones
& clangs like a coin when it hits the bottom, showing us all just how deep
the wells of emptiness run. This was THAT POEM, the poem that reminds you
that there are worlds blooming on the spider-thin limbs of the Yggdrasil world tree
of your branching veins. This was THAT POEM, the poem that takes people off
sixth-floor concrete ledges, or else puts them there. I
was going to write THAT POEM, the last whistling words you would've heard
shrieking through your screaming ears
right before your blood paved the ground. I could taste it, I could taste it, I could taste
THAT POEM!
AND I WAS GOING TO WRITE IT!
But then I sat down to my computer & it seemed I didn't have the words.
Literature
One Day I Shall Lay Down And Die
one day i shall lay down and die
and so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,
my forehead pressed against yours
like two strange animals lost on a plain of
red sand. one day i shall lay down and die so
now here, let these birds pick me apart,
show you it all, the torn underwear
and the girl gazing at the soft glow
on trees, the ferocious lion-love
weeping under the kitchen table. one day
i shall lay down and die
so for now i feast on beaches, your breath,
the flutter of my dress sore against my skin
someday i will find that peace,
plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kiss
on the bow of your mouth and sl
Literature
Superimpose
He doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki
Literature
Don't Talk To Me
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
She nodded, her expression unfathomable. "Me too."
There was a long pause.
"Just two days ago," I said quietly, avoiding her eyes, "we couldn't even be in the same room without going for each other's throats."
She turned away. "Yeah," she admitted. "But look at us now."
I continued, "And just two months ago we were the best of friends. But look at us now." This time I looked directly at her, smiling mirthlessly.
"But look at us now," she
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
(c) Katherine Fraine
Thank you so much, guys, for the Daily D!
Thank you so much, guys, for the Daily D!
Comments137
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactI love reading poems with dense substance like this. I remember you saying you had trouble cutting the lines, but each one hooks me at the first word.
I like what you start midway through the fourth line. It serves a double purpose as a mimicry, and in fact writing THAT POEM. (Actually I'm not comfortable calling it mimicry, but I hope you get what I mean.)
I don't get the angry feel from this, like a few people mention in the comments. Yes, obviously agitated, but more as an itch intensifying as the poem progresses. And I think you built it up wonderfully. I read more and more rapidly towards the end, I can really "picture" it being read out loud.
The examples of what such a poem would be like, are abundant and copious. My favourites:
lights like Semtex
and
the poem that takes people off
sixth-floor concrete ledges, or else puts them there.
And I love when poems oppose themselves on the last line ^^ It will sound great performed.
In between "ripped out" in the eleventh line of the second verse, there are two spaces.
oh god, this is pathetic <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="15" height="15" alt="
" title=" (Big Grin)"/> I wish I could say something more useful.Comment on your author's comment: Hating all your writing just means that you have improved and reach for more.