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 |   GI100 Book #2...random attempts at poetry. |
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A second attempt at "Give It 100!"  , since the first one ("100" ) turned out pretty well even though I didn't complete it within 100 days.  ![Merit Badge in Mythology
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*^*Salute*^**^*Balloonb*^* YAY!!Congratulations on your fabulous challenge of writing 100 poems is less than your 100 days!! An amazing feat so you deserve a trip to Mount Olympus for a treat! You can walk in the hall of champions. *^*Trophyg*^* Wonderful expressions! Keep on shining. *^*Starstruck*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Mythology-1105.gif) These are just rough sketches and ideas that are barely a little more rounded-out...they're not perfect but they're gonna be good enough to share here at least. Your comments, support, and words of encouragement will be greatly appreciated!  Best Poetry Collection |
7-6-17 You said I have a good memory and I retaliated with "Remember when I could remember things?" I swear you had to have thought that before, but I'm not sure. There's nothin' more to see around here says the guy who's seen it all and you and I both know he's wrong but who am I to ruin his fun or our secret surprises? You said I couldn't go on like this so I went another way. I know you're hiding something from me but it isn't satisfaction. The locals know all the routines, both theirs and ours. The least they could do for us would be to say so quietly but their thoughts are on their faces and maybe it's time to move or at least hide the kids. I'm worried we might be one of them. |
7-7-17 In perplexity, we make lists in order to not admit to ourselves that we're slaves to our failing memories, wishing to not escape convenience. And forgetting the list illustrates the primary principle: we can't be what we can't conceive, and it mustn't have been important if we didn't bother writing it down. Essentially, passing the blame on to something profoundly and confoundingly pointedly pointless. |
7-7-17 The hipsters gathered around the artisanal cell phone kiosk, arguing about and trying to debunk the myths concerning the search for God's new soul. This would prove to be the final divisive discussion ending with "I think we all can agree to disagree" before the realization that the 21st century rendered nails obsolete struck them, and faith returned to its "Sundays Only" designation. |
7-8-17 The shrink says I'm having "stress dreams" and I wonder if I should ever eat again because there's never a need for either even if they're vaguely unrelated. The only thing that saves me is coffee, even though it sometimes comes out of my fingertips but it's the one vice I can mostly keep down in a manageable way since the booze no longer agrees. And that was the clear-cut go-to when I needed to mute my brain for days/weeks/months at a time. Nowadays I'm looking through cracked windows and sunlight antidotes sicken me because it brings out the worst in the well-intentioned so I'm internally aggravated in a smile-colored package that's fading with age and a failure to understand anything. What good is trying when the resuscitation doesn't fit the faint? There is me...the confused answer to the questions no one knows to pose. And you can't let me in if I can't find the means to come inside. |
7-9-17 Some days it's hard to tell which way the air flows. I'm brittle and lazily focused; I suppose I could just as well go either way, breathing ribbons of anonymously vacant content meant to disturb then settle. Asking for nothing; receiving pacts of consistent partial relevance in return. The house is bleeding fire and all I can do is stare at the scene wondering how I got here and why I'm not the relief I claim to be. Might just be my delusion- my symphony of construction humming broken bars of hollowed notes while dancing in place to the calming notion that sometimes my best company is myself. It's not so lonely at the top when you don't know you're there and the glass house is inhabited by ash-flecked dreams and ill-timed memories. |
7-10-17 Jaywalking the intersection cars don't seem to cross 'til there's a pedestrian, he claims the gait of a horse past its racing days but game enough to be chased. Nothing but the air swarms in faux suffocation grasps, with a menacing growl but an otherwise meek temperament; mostly drying off unnoticed in the Mount Rushmore of silence billowing widely in his thoughts. Random, then gone without interruption or changes in pace. Trained. Not derailed, but vacant save the fury of rust working overtime; ideas and problems and solutions in a flow chart starting and ending with "Nothing/ Now What?" and a sense of peace (for a moment). Legs here in motion; mind there in a stillness of near collapse. He is he, and he is that.  |
7-10-17 The star-turned-fanboy, built on ambition and misdirection, claimed no contest in the interest of self-interest. He's not believing in the here-and-now the way we're supposed to... the meaning of mindfulness we were taught from the ground up. We're four seasons and he's still on vacation from the first. Justice doesn't serve the worst. He's got the half-seemed assumptions, and they keep gathering like budding truths in need of a good comeuppance but he's not fit to be disturbed. He's not here and he means it. And honestly, all we can do is contemplate or complicate and we know that'll do us no good. Not now. But what we can do is look back and take a page out of his book in passive-aggressive arrogance...if we're gonna be wrong we're gonna be spectacularly wrong but at least we know enough to be grateful in demise. For what it's worth, we'll say we tried. |
7-10-17 You'll hear it from the sustained source. Panic and wither or start tweaking the enemies... learn to make a choice. Prod but don't follow. If you're idly towing, figure you'll wind up tidily owing until you gain direction... learn to use your voice. You're a system, not a user. You're the patient, not the cancer and ya gotta have something to answer to if you're not alone... learn ways to rejoice. Defend your decision. Prove your solution. Silence an army and still all the breezes like you're their Jesus. If you maintain this factor of will you claim you have, you can easily see yourself free and complete... learn to be your choice. |
7-11-17 There is nothing that suggests an immediate escape from shame but plans in someone else's hands need blame assigned for I assume comfort, and it's so loud it almost becomes sonic the way it echoes with contagious glee. My mouth knows no names but that doesn't mean I'm anonymous or excluded when agony in the form of feigned brilliance sneaks into speaking in hushed tones with the might of a clumsy wood chopper in need of a story to fell. Come sit next to me and pretend you know it all so I can see you'd do the same when you're breathing lazy thoughts regarding me. |
7-11-17 My native language is disentanglement, a form of peace as much as relief. The shadows in my mouth could shout but choose reclusiveness over what you would enjoy to disprove. I assume nothing, which makes me smart or something, since I don't know what I don't know from the shell of my soul to the aches below. And my voice dreams of beauty and poise but drinks the poison from pens chosen to underestimate and/or miscalculate adulation and critically glorified masturbation. Feed and feel and read and reveal; lungs ebb and flow and moan and grow adding the bass pitch to words more stitched than said. Quilted quotes from my head form the vernacular, intact and extracted in drops of syllables made malleable by wrist flicks and scribbles; lines between lines. Aligned but not confined. I screech without a sound, like breath aloud under an ear's microscope. An array of hope. My native language is an account of vocal images tinged with an accent naming everywhere I've been. |
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Probably not...how I write them and how they sound in my head is dramatically different than how they sound coming out of my mouth 
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Thank you, Mona!
