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poking sticks between the bars
staring, vacantly amused
they don't understand this thing of ours
why it cannot be abused
I am contained within these walls
to ripen and grow bitter with age
no one hears my calls
as anything more than inert rage
I see you looking in,
from the outside of this cage.
the day will come when
your doors rust and fall away
I'll be free then
on that unreachable day
time is my enemy
it scratches at my skin
I owe you some enmity
that much is given
my bones grind with passage
this anger has nowhere to go
they don't get the message
they cannot know
just as the beast paces
a telltale sign of impatience
looking hungrily at hungry faces
they could never contain this
not when I was strong
they think I'll be here long
time to show them they thought wrong.
now I see you looking, tilted head
eyes glazed over, no more dread
you've grown used to it, I know that look
you've turned a page
in your life's book
I see you from outside, in that cage.
staring, vacantly amused
they don't understand this thing of ours
why it cannot be abused
I am contained within these walls
to ripen and grow bitter with age
no one hears my calls
as anything more than inert rage
I see you looking in,
from the outside of this cage.
the day will come when
your doors rust and fall away
I'll be free then
on that unreachable day
time is my enemy
it scratches at my skin
I owe you some enmity
that much is given
my bones grind with passage
this anger has nowhere to go
they don't get the message
they cannot know
just as the beast paces
a telltale sign of impatience
looking hungrily at hungry faces
they could never contain this
not when I was strong
they think I'll be here long
time to show them they thought wrong.
now I see you looking, tilted head
eyes glazed over, no more dread
you've grown used to it, I know that look
you've turned a page
in your life's book
I see you from outside, in that cage.
what is this a livejournal?
i've been thinking about why i write, well, why i share everything i write online and in a larger sense why it's poetry and not just a blog or a diary it's not something i ever had a satisfying answer for until now because i couldn't stop to be introspective long enough and explore my motives or myself. i had too many other people's interests and agendas to serve. basically, briefly, it's just because there's no risk to writing something no one else can see. what's interesting about me? what's so interesting that, if i write it in a little black notebook and leave it on the floor, my private thoughts, it means anything but litter? i could fill up notebooks, fill up trashcans of notebooks this way and still not really express myself or say anything impactful. i found satisfaction comes from poetry because of the ambiguity and the stretching. the stretching meaning, metaphors and such. i can write you a poem or a story or whathaveyou about anything, and it's not about the aesthetic
incomplete
representatives apropos of nothing, X Boulevard meets King Jr Drive not that it matters where they stand, but at the corner these two debate which path to take ambiguous to the fact they are going forward ignorant and independent free of harm to tongue wag, what they think or say, it'll never matter they lack the foresight to understand they're speculating on more than a few blocks because they're not from there and can't empathize for a second, those stupid crackers. no, i want it to go more like this: beneath the street signs, on the corner of X Blvd and King Jr Dr what does your insightful sociopolitical debate matter? what meaningful data can you two ignoramuses possibly gather? which way to go, you can't know, you don't represent these issues; you're just two white savior crackers.
stupid thing
i'm going to reach out from this pond and grab narcissus by the throat drag his pretty ass through the looking glass and shove these mushrooms so he shrinks grows, explodes and feels small whiplash- blah can't write whatever the hell i'm tryna write.
A Sketch of an Outline to an Outline of a WIP
The Little Black Book of Impossible Murders I have a fantasy. Open on this: a lanky young man lives in a run down building in San Francisco in the mid or late 80’s. The exact time isn’t important, the exact economic state of the building and locale isn’t where the fixations lies, either. I hone in on him. His life and experiences, the people he deals with and how everything affects him. Everything. He lives in squalor. The walls are brown, stained with yellow streaks like ribbons of piss peeling the plaster off the inside of the room and with a matching old smell. The ceiling is water damaged from the salty air, there are rats and roaches, I don’t know if this is accurate to the climate and ecosystem of San Francisco, but it’s important to the setting that it takes place there for other reasons. It’s loosely important. This fantasy is an outline for the second part of three stories; the first one is about two thirds of the way finished. Why this man, why San Francisco? 1984, I just
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