I haven’t written for a long while. I also have issues when it comes to privacy protection. Most probably, it’s all in my head, but I feel unwell when plenty of people see what I do.
I stopped writing for another reason, of course. Privacy issues can be easily resolved when you use pen and paper. I simply stopped writing because I’m not immortal any longer. I lost my edge and the meaning of things I had in store to tell readers. My opinions don’t matter to myself even, let alone anybody else.
Personally, I was diagnosed with something I’d rather not talk about. My struggle moved to that line.
Having said all this, I don’t feel better and I don’t feel safer. Here are two small and rather badly written poems that made me feel I am about to enter poetry once more. After writing them, though, I hardly wrote one more. This is not the output I was used to. Therefore, I don’t consider it a come back to writing. I’m really sorry for that. Writing was one of my ways out. My resources are depleting.
The yellow stones of the facade across
Belie me of their ancientness,
Remind me of the cozy books
and kindly teachers.
Behind them – office sternness,
Three years after Brutal Minds
I get the courage to wake up,
start the journey back to myself,
© soulmary, 2017
Things have been strange.
Jobs have transformed.
People have changed
to look more like worms
and less like athletes,
to do their daily work
with whitish soft-skin fingers
not knowing how to handle a simple tool
Like a screwdriver, for instance.
Things have evolved
and the planet looks like trash
we crawl on our bellies
licking the mud
where chocolate chips have mingled
with tears, cockroaches’ blood and peaceful piss.
(c) MK, 2016
Tell Us What You Wish to See Here
Bring out the dreams
Tell us what you wish to see here
Sing it out,
or yell it.
Better out than in, they say.
Although they often speak
They often come across you wishes
And ignore them
They are embarrassed by you.
By your plain looks,
by the lack of special shine
in your hair,
or your eyes.
That’s why they ignore you
Until you start ignoring them
At which point they get annoyed
And start paying attention
in order to hurt you.
© 2016, MK
Process Notes: We often say in our office texts things like “We want to be useful to our readers, so tell us what you wish to read or see here”. That was how this came to be.
The Bloody Trail of the Bitter Shark
It came one morning with the mist
I washed my bloody hands
The ocean water spilled
Champagne-like around me
Then I saw the trail of tomato paste
Getting thick so fast
That I couldn’t make my best move
To the safety of the shore.
My hands were bloody
Red with fear and disgust
My throat swallowed lumps
Between choked breaths
The morning mist listless
The bloody trail of the bitter shark.
Lack of Creativity
Have I been asleep or awake for too long?
On the loose or under pressure,
I don’t know.
© 2015, MK
A Sour Love Poem
Going with my fingers through your greasy hair,
I remembered how much I wanted to touch you
how much I desired your lips
in the rainy afternoons while walking to my private composition lessons.
Seeing the hellish grin on your new girlfriend’s face,
I felt as if a thin blade went through my body
very thin and very cold
at the same time burning me
and filthy disgust.
The moment of waking ignited my rage
very short-lived rage
which died in indifference
Because the waking was real.
© 2015, MK
Note: These were written for this week’s prompt at Three Word Wednesday: Greasy, Hellish, Ignite
Amazed with my soul
that sighs in silent music tones
and busts in awful failures.
The system needs restart
to the level of awesomeness
it enjoyed a while ago.
My head’s a mess,
even more so than my verse.
If there exists a visit
of reason and rhyme,
trump me with it.
The CD spins its endless tune.
I get off, all dressed up for party –
a kick-ass princess with a headache.
© 2015, MK
This is my first ever participation in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads prompts. A lot of my friends poets are there and have been poeming to their prompts for a long time. I have just boarded. Today, it’s the IGWRT Weeken Mini Challenge, Write a pome inspired from going out.
Image taken from the prompt site
Having filled myself up with green salad,
not to mention the white wine
I drank profusely,
I went on to enquire after the spiritual
jewelry you make,
hoping it could be a good business
to profit us all.
After the green salad
and the olives,
on top of the white wine
and my earlier promise to go on
the talk of “spiritually
which could help one to prosperity
on a small degree, even,
without any exercise,
refreshed my spirits.
Spirits are easily refreshed by spirits.
(Remember the white wine
I mentioned before.)
© 2015, forestlove
Prompted, inspired and shared at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads‘ Weekend Mini Challenge
PS The featured image is by BeadsMagic.com.
This is my Sunday Whirl participation this week. Rather surprisingly, on time. It’s been a terrible beginning of March in this part of the woods, to be honest. No more waiting, here is the pool of words and here is the poem, too.
Image taken from prompt site
The spring makes snowy attempts
to be delivered,
tearing cables and posts down
like blasphemy of weather.
A whole land plagued
born to be tossed
We are dreaming of the rustling trees,
of dry grass and sweet air,
that will keep on like that
and yield photos to be envied.
So far, “All hands on deck!”
is the summon spring has for us.
(c) 2015, forestlove
Shared to Sunday Whirl #203, prompt for March 15th.
Some more summertime poetry I wrote on notes and retrieved much later. There were many floods last summer, lives were lost and people remained homeless and poorer than before.
The Floods Around These Parts
Plumbing towards correction
Crawling before the heart
of silence and dead impunity
Plumbing without awareness
Beyond the forest license
and thumping hearts.