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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 |
7-20-17 She's got a road map to Jupiter filled with clichés and puns that don't make sense but she can't control what her sister sends her. The excuse was always "that's how she's wired" but it's long since frayed and she can't seem to keep one day from the next. Still, it'll hang on the wall alongside elaborate drawings of houses and farms, loose sketches of cardinals and orioles, and random stick figures...all populating a universe that could only exist in the void remaining in what used to be the oldest daughter's clockwork mind. Tomorrow she'll stumble over and in a cloying voice wonder to no one why anyone would consider that "art", but next week she'll consider the areas it may lead to. And someday she'll expand upon her travels, including all points in between, and gift a souvenir. Mostly done without leaving the kitchen table. For "The Writer's Cramp" , "Universe According To The Oldest Sister" . |
7-20-17 Under sea it's impossible to drown. We rage microscopically as giants breathe incomplete and docile ashore; beneath, our uprising begins. |
7-21-17 I hear noises and I can never tell where they're coming from. Pipes rattling. Strangers' voices. Rustling bushes. The selfish anger in prayers. I'm driven by needing to know. Curiosity becomes instinctual habit with every headspin my neck produces. I can withstand what I can see but visualization isn't optional. Existence to believe belief exists. If something from somewhere, then here to there. |
7-21-17 you are inside me like knowledge like poetry the arteries commanding blood expanding ivy in the dead heat of summertime preparing to dry to die to come back to reply a sentence ending unafraid unchanging with a semicolon with a death with an all-knowing smirk of composure in the face of scathing drama you make me me see like a mute viper noon delights for dinner waken with appetite spoke little spoke sent more or less you equal everything |
7-22-17 Are you prepared to suck the same poison? In the deepening slope of nows your options whittle themselves down to finally celebrating your mistakes; every facet of life equals party and every facet of party equals life until there is no difference between anything and that's when you realize you're dying not at the hand you were given but the one you chose to play. But you were dead anyway, right? There are millions of synapses firing while you're waiting for the gun to shoot...and any one of them has a different and/or better resolution. |
7-22-17 The view was lopsided but we would make it; 5500km give or take. Time-honed and precious... soft as water-sanded stone and similarly we can grow through a mildly muted subtraction that sees us bond over what we traverse. Not having to rely on technology puts our focus more directly on each other. A welcome, and eventually relaxing, change. |
7-23-17 You're in retrograde again... sparking and pinging nothing of note but noticed enough anyway. Nineteen and a half years ago you might've been crazy but you're just a generation too late for asylum existence. Take these pills and take some more until you can't take anymore and we'll try to tell you when you've had enough. If you can stay awake through your pain we'll inform you you're famous long enough for a following before you vanish mysteriously again into yourself. |
7-25-17 "All you want is to run into the woods & beg the wolf to fuck you up." Ocean Vuong, "Anaphora as Coping Mechanism" Maybe you didn't think you'd make it this long or expect to be in this position. And I don't think you know the difference between trying and expectations. I've already got everything I would inherit from you but you're proving to be after something more; something that isn't yours and couldn't be bothered with for so long, even though you're... You're just that. An ellipsis; a space. A regrettable pause and a gasp where life should've ended for you when it did a little for me. An empty line because words can't do justice to the places you weren't man enough or responsibly fit to fill. Your nerve knows no bounds or common sense, and I'm not the only one who's said this before. My heart goes out to those who won't let you die alone, but I can't pity them for their roles in allowing you to forget just what you were required to be, and not only to me. I can tell it's not important to you, just like I can see part of that in me and I have to fight this not becoming you every day. Fighting it. Fighting you, and I don't think I ever really knew you. But that's ok. As much as I tried, I eventually understood each time you failed with exceptionally rare ability to consistently be inconsiderately inconsistent. We noticed; everybody knew it, but you loved something, somebody, everything, that listened to you and indulged you more than we could or were given any chance to. And now... Maybe you didn't think you'd make it this long, but I figured you might. And it's time for me to just as well consider you left to the people you loved the most. I don't wish death on anyone; I merely want you gone. I want forgotten. My name exonerated from your separate distinction. It's not me and it never was. Because you never really liked me anyway; you just did what you were supposed to and some of what fathers should, for show, but you never wanted to raise someone and what you've got left are a bunch of anyones. |
7-25-17 I lack discipline; that's as far as I go with being assertive. I hunger. I struggle. I stutter. I rumble. I cut. I ache. I bleed all over paper, the floor, you, and the weather. I'm supposed to think I'm fortunate. I'm well aware of it. And when I get there, I'm somewhere else like I don't believe myself. Everything sticks out and I don't fit in. Personified embarrassment. Stay humble? I'm lucky if I mumble. My thoughts are mumbo-jumbo, supersized and magnified. Let's play a game called "Quiet Time". That's where I leave you alone and you leave. If I could express emotions properly I'd probably fall between disbelief and grief with a side of relief on my face. And that's my daily dilemma... life is like a misshapen agenda. It's all walls and no corners; windows but no doors and keys but no locks. Time without a clock. I'm a body at peace on the surface, but my value isn't stating what my worth is. |
7-26-17 The forest animals stretch and yawn, and somewhere a clock is arguing the merits of Aristotle with a teleprompter and a set of gardening shears. Only Disney princesses know immortality; the jobless men vaguely struggle while teaching us how to hide our feelings and just stay creepy yet suave enough to get kissed (and we like getting kissed). Otherwise, no real endgame. Everything's a lie dressed up as the unquestionable truth, and when you blink, that's when the unmentionables happen. There is no heaven in the animation. There is only some kind of bullshit happily ever after behind closed credits. |
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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!
