excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
November 30th.
I am sat by my favorite tree again, 13 days later. The ground beneath me is still familiar, and so is the smell of smoke, but I am trying to get used to the ache in my lungs. I try not to ruminate on these next three weeks, my least favorite of the year, but it is futile. I feel stuck. I am unsure if I have it in me to turn my pain into some glorious metaphor tonight. The sun sets too early now; they’re each different, sure, but in this moment, it feels all the same. Blue and yellow and orange muddled together until the canvas becomes dark again, like I am used to. I like being used to things. My roommates’ conversations sound foreign, the girl in the mirror is a stranger, I have this weird pain in my left shoulder, maybe I should have gone to my weekly yoga class after all. For 13 days, I was someone different, and 13 days later, I don’t want to know her anymore. I feel stagnant. My to-do list is a mountain and I have no plan for when to climb it, much less how. I am sat outside, on the golf course that has become my second home, hoping desperately to find the place in which my remains are buried, but I’m not even trying. I see no grave and there was never a tombstone to look for, all that I am met with is a rabbit hopping by, that’s new. I don’t like new. The next three weeks shouldn’t feel new, I’ve been through them before and I’ll do so again next year. New, new, new, everything feels new. The girl I once knew would know what to do, but these 13 days have killed her, and funnily enough, there’s still no tombstone to look for. Last week was warm but tonight the weather chills me to my bone; my hands are always cold but I worry my thumbs might actually freeze. These sweatpants were given to me yesterday and my comically large coat has finally made its debut. The growl from my stomach is almost comforting, if only it didn’t pain me in a way I wasn’t used to. I twirl my hair, the same piece I always do, but I just found out it might make it shorter than the rest, that’s new. Everything seems so close, but when I reach out my arms, it is only a gust of wind that greets me, and a magnifying glass falls out of my hands. I didn’t know I was holding that. I don’t know a lot anymore, apparently, and, worst of all, I don’t know if I have it in me to learn again.
By daphne gray2 years ago in Poets
Becalmed
Introduction I'm in another of those periods where I am unable to write. It is slightly weird because there are lots of things going through my head but I just don't know how to put the things together. I was thinking of maybe doing a piece on words, or a story with the theme of being becalmed, and the Brian Eno piece came on the player so that may have influenced me, then there are the two current Vocal challenges "Smooth" and "Identity".
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Poets
Scribble Writing #3
Making progress daily Has me fading In this waiting Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
