Poetry Corner (Warning: Angry Poem Today)

MO

I have a long standing tradition of trying to get better at poetry. I used to use the provided poem prompt words of a community I was in, and then later I would pick words from Vtubers. Well, my sources are not here, and I normally fish out prompt words and just.... make a poem...and feel better.

I have very solid stuff that I labored over and was calm, and I cleaned it up.

However, now is not one of those nights. I don't even know if I can do rhyme.

I extracted three prompt words from this, I'm going to cough up my poem, and then I am going to try and finish my work for the night so I can turn in early for tomorrow. I have an extremely early meeting tomarrow, and I hope to my Christian God that I'm not kept up thinking about this tonight.

Prompt words: Anarchy. Spring. Child.

I met you in the Spring
A thousand years ago
"I was busy spending time with my family, and drinking with friends!"
"Our schedules aren't lining up!"
"I didn't want to bother you!"

Stop vomiting up your lies!

"I've become less reliant!"
"I felt less of a burden this way!"
"I don't love you anymore"

I put my fingers in my ears!

"We want to live in different states."
"This is a thought I go through every few months"

This is the authoritarian police state
Of Relationship-Istan
A thousand silences
A thousand things kept to oneself
Have been put in front of the firing squad
In the glorious name of Relationship-Istan

A thousand glorious sacrifices
A thousand little changes
A thousand nights with one or two hours too little sleep
A thousand times my heart has weeped

If what you are saying is true
You are admitting to lying to me
Keeping the truth secret is lying
I have admitted to so many dark, twisted things
Things I have repented for
Things I have made good on
But you had dirt on me
I gave you my nuclear launch codes

But you don't sound like my Comrade
You don't sound like a citizen of Relationship-Istan
You talk different
Your word choice is wrong
You keep changing your explanations
Your behavior doesn't match

So either you are not yourself
Or you have been lying to me for months

What an awful fucking person you are.
As an ugly, hateful, paranoid nutcase.
I deserve the truth, to be rejected for what I am
To be rejected 1 or 3 years in, not 7.

Now my whole night, my whole week
My whole life is fucked up
Sigh
I loved even the annoying parts of you
I missed them
My heart longed for them
It took a few years, but it happened
I wish you still had the energy
The compulsion
To bother me

mallorystarck

Smooth and broad-chested, I swagger forward,
My feet solid on the soft earth, my lungs filled with grass-smell and hot air.

I rage against the sun, I stare in his face,
My shirt soaked through with the sweat of youth and vitality,
The proof of my existence soaked through cotton.

Cardinals and cicadas sing summer's madrigal
Harsh and atonal and cacophonous
And it invited me to sit and ease my mind
To its circuitous melody.

I think of my friends and lovers
Tall, bulging, breathing life and jubilation,
Quickening my heart and mind,
Making me with their glances.

This is they who I love:
The athlete, the singer, and the farmer,
They who hate themselves and cower, and beat the ground,
They who have patient smiles, and wide eyes,
They who laugh heartily and smack the backs of their beloved,
They who wrap themselves desperately to each other,
They who have no fear of death, or of pain, or of living,
They who run out and seek and find you, and give of themselves whatever they have,
They who care for the weak and feeble.

God knows I am weak and feeble.

mechap

When spring came, when every crow announced its arrival by raising his cry half a tone, I took the green train of the Yamanote line and got off at Tokyo station, near the central post office. Even if the street was empty I waited at the red light—Japanese style—so as to leave space for the spirits of the broken cars. Even if I was expecting no letter I stopped at the general delivery window, for one must honor the spirits of torn up letters, and at the airmail counter to salute the spirits of unmailed letters.

I took the measure of the unbearable vanity of the West, that has never ceased to privilege being over non-being, what is spoken to what is left unsaid. I walked alongside the little stalls of clothing dealers. I heard in the distance Mr. Akao's voice reverberating from the loudspeakers... a half tone higher.

Then I went down into the basement where my friend—the maniac—busies himself with his electronic graffiti. Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. A piece of chalk to follow the contours of what is not, or is no longer, or is not yet; the handwriting each one of us will use to compose his own list of 'things that quicken the heart,' to offer, or to erase. In that moment poetry will be made by everyone, and there will be emus in the 'zone.'

sans soleil

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