I swear this poetry workshop will be the death of me. I love poetry. I love reading it. I love listening to it live. On that note, I don't identify as a poet.
I'm over half-way through the class and am just starting to find my voice. The assignment was to use imagery to describe a recent dream *sigh*... I just had a dream about a female prostitute, symbolizing some kind of deep internal power struggle. Thanks for the mindf*ck, Professor. You asked for it...
Cobalt phosphorescence skirts the cobblestones
Beneath the pounding of my haggard boots.
The streets radiate with the melody of revelry
Heels clack and snap within the slats
Swooning into the arms of capable chaps
Their shadows swallowed by the merciless night.
“Have some fun,” she beckons without refrain
Arched back against the concrete tomb.
My heart ricochets at the command
Vertigo spill, leaning in for the kill.
Sweet smells of bourbon and Black recall
That not one of us was once a saint.
What's worse, he said he liked the style and wanted to see more of this from me. I guess this 3 AM self-loathing, writing, jamming Patti Smith thing paid off for once.
I took this workshop as a challenge but if there's one thing I've learned it's that I'm completely out of my element. I'm not a poet, and I'm okay with that.