A POEM AND MY THOUGHTS ON MY WRITING JOURNEY
Flee the flesh of your face,
Your lips trembling, chewing
The words that fell from my lips
Like old books in pyre,
Your eyes seeking every object
In the room, the wet curtains,
The cold, rumpled bed sheets, the bottle,
Your panties on the floor, but me.
But they are like borrowed limbs
For I cannot feel them.
Maybe it is the dead weight
Of this torn and tattered heart
That heaves between them.
There's a hollow space
Where all that was us used to lie,
Now the words that flee my lips
Are wrung out with each hitching breath.
And whisper four words; a question.
I contemplate the internal rhyme
And let the content fly away
Down the road with the drizzle.
What about our vows?
They died, my dear. They died.
You mutter my reply,
Tasting every syllable, then
You swallow it and gag.
The line of my spittle stained reply
Clubbing you hard and
You crumble to a flood before me.
My heart become ashes in the wind
And my hands fall, my own again.
I raise them to touch you,
To share a thought, make you see
But we could stand there forever yet
We would still seek for what stands here
Between us; wanting, waiting.
I had written the above verse with the intention of submitting it for the @stach sponsored weekly poetry contest but I felt that the poem didn't do the theme justice and I didn't want to delete it before starting over.
One thing I actually enjoy about writing poetry and fiction is that I am allowed to walk down a path I have never taken before. I am allowed to get lost, then slowly find my way back home if I so desire. This is something I have not been able to do in real life. There's something like getting blissfully lost, isn't there?
I have always loved to travel but I am the laziest person I know. Weirdly though, I do not enjoy traveling for the sights and sounds or the delicacy I get to taste in new places. I enjoy it for the people I meet, the culture, the language. I don't know if I am clear?
Anyhow, because I am a lazy person, getting my butt off the chair and packing a bag is a difficult task. As a result, I have travelled mostly through reading. Through the novels that had caught my fancy, I have journey within an author's imagination to the deepest recesses of his or her fears and to the heights of his or her ecstasy. I have lived in now dead cities and crawled through the sewers of imagined kingdoms that make reality pale in comparison. I have lived years and like anyone who has lived too long in other people's imagination, I am becoming weary with the world.
In Jules Verne's stories, he was able to show that there are journeys that take one outwards, to far and exotic places and there are journeys that take one inwards to the depths of all that is hidden beneath the earth crust. I, too, have come to realise that though I have traversed the thoughts of many a superb writer, I have stayed away from the closest universe to me, my own thoughts.
Writing is therefore me, plumbing the depths of my imagination, like a space explorer, hoping to find an uncharted world, a place of magic, love, life, pain and yes, of death.
I have spied planets and asteroids hurtling through this new universe but they fly so fast that I have not been able to land safely, find a place, a setting, a character who would tell me the story of the world.
It would happen one day, I am sure. A weary man or a hard woman or a little boy scrounging through red dirt would step out of the dusty haze, see me, smile, beckon me to share the fire, dinner, a pipe and stories; beautiful stories.
Until then I am exploring and though I may come across junk, it does not mean there's nothing here. It means simply that I am yet to find where the junk come from. Something beautiful must have been created to get that much junk, right? Bear with me then, I am on the way. I will seek their very depths, these imaginations of mine. Meanwhile enjoy the poem.
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