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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 |
7-11-17 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. |
7-13-17 Ain't nobody gonna tell me what to say! Ain't nobody gonna tell me what to do! Everywhere...I see poems...everywhere. Considering our minds, it's a wonder we don't have an extensive language of code words. We probably do, buried in the thunders under our collective thousands of works, but perhaps we're too busy pushing ahead to erect framework for (new) old words set apart from and due to fashion. Are we not fashioning fashion? Sounds like something we'd say if we said stuff like that. Natch, fit to stand alone yet able to bend and brush up with the masses. How? We piece-by-piece to some means of completion by whatever becomes our dedicated reason. Our nature is all nature, of and and, and something when put together few might understand. Which wasn't part of the plan until the plan had been planned, and here we stand. |
7-13-17 Nobody's gonna be happy you're alive and we're not gonna dance on your grave when you die. You weren't around to consume all that you're not allowed to ruin. You speak the illest of people like me while inhalin' your free disease. Like a pinprick gettin' a cramp you're ten-thousand of 'em in my lap. If I coulda cured you with a drug I'd snort it and smoke ya to the stub. Nobody's gonna be happy you're alive and we're not gonna dance on your grave when you die. Thank you for not letting us forget why. If every dog has fleas you're three and more to me with audacity. On top of a mountain you stand alone full of everything you do not know and your shoes are made of the shit you say- like your mountain; like your days. Your story is lyrics, your mind is prose, you're living meaningless, insecure, and exposed. Nobody's gonna be happy you're alive and we're not gonna dance on your grave when you die. The first breath fresh from the coma was hell and in the next you thanked yourself. You said you weren't long to live like this; to our chagrin, we were non-existent. Not like we waited but you knew we'd mind; we're not self-righteous in the same kind. Off we'll go, not being acknowledged... alive or dead, no difference to speak of. Nobody's gonna be happy you're alive and we're not gonna dance on your grave when you die. Dying might change the way you live but your death won't change your life. Thank you for not letting us forget why. |
7-13-17 You should know everything about what makes you uncomfortable. All the tics. Do you wanna know what makes you tick? You need to be scared to be alive. Die to breathe. Need to feel. Hate and love; peace and war. Everything coexists whether we like it or not. Agreed or not. No else. No other. Seen and unseen. It's all there, enmeshed. Does that trigger you? Good. If not, you need to ask yourself why you're here, and what you're looking to gain from this... because I'm not sure I can be of assistance. |
7-14-17 I dream cliffhangers. Tidal forces unprecedented, and edited for pity. As I try to hold on to a sleep I can never keep, the screaming scorching my throat doesn't make a sound while washing me awake with an unforeseen terror. Like everyday life disasters I cannot plan for these; coping is only learned after they occur. And there is no pill that can leave me safely on a pillow's shore. I just have to tread and hope I can swim until I wake, believing maybe I've drowned. |
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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!
