Sunday, April 3, 2011

Erase This Poem: A Poem

We haven't written any poetry this time around, despite the fact that FNA, a couple months back, tasked us to read Emily Dickinson. We are sure this was something he thought would inspire us to write poetry again, or he was just trying to turn us into something we are not. He does tend to confuse us and make us think perhaps he doesn't like who we are.

Upon his neglect of our needs and desires, we let the partially read text, The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson, sleep next to us on our king sized bed. It still resides there, next to a mini dictionary, a pen, and sticky tabs; so we can mark and note the passages that we find interesting, that we'd like to explore and write about.

We jotted down a little ditty in bed one morning, while reading Emily, about a month or so back; but we've lost it. It was 140 characters that ended up as a Twitter 'status', and then vanished into nothingness. A concept not unfamiliar to us.

We felt inspired today, while cooking breakfast, and working on a blog review of a talented young writer we stumbled upon over a week ago. We were going to post that, the story/review about this bright star; but we decided to post a little prose that we wrote while eating our brunch, and thinking about our dear FNA.

We have not been lucky enough to see him, FNA,  more than a few times since starting this blog, and coming out to the word as mentally ill. This blog, an attempt to help others who suffer from similar struggles, and to show the world what it's like to try to function, to stay afloat, when odds are stacked against people. 

What are we to do? Nothing. There is nothing we can do, the decisions he makes are his own to live with. What we can do is write about him, paint him in various manners, write and dedicate poetry to him; and love him vicariously through The Jeans, until he too departs from us; and then hope that we find someone who can reciprocate the kind of love we have, finally.


Erase This Poem

Wrapped up and empty.
Pretension oozes from his pores;
He will not acknowledge his transparency.
What we see.

We want to cup his face
In our hands. Take his band of gold;
Like the ring of scotch on our night table.

Stare into his eyes. Say we love him; 
despite his pretension. We desire him, 
his voice, his mouth, the need to tell him truths. 
Just be.

The meanings will illude him;
Confused because he doesn't know 
How to dance with our words. We tell him.
This is not a poem.

If you like poetry, we have archived works. The tabs are at the top of this page. We've been writing poetry to deal with the pain and confusion, the love and anger, in our life for nearly two decades; we are 31 years old.

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