Friday, 9 November 2012

Procrastination Poetry

Instead of writing my novel, I have instead written a poem.  And then I found some other poems I wrote this year. If they stay hidden on my hard drive, then it was for naught. Maybe I'll put them in my novel. Either way, here. Have some poetry.

I'm building a spaceship.
I'll crawl right inside it.
I'll solder it shut
and be still.

And the dark will set in,
around my spaceship of tin,
And I'll close my eyes
and be still.

one of many
I am not his first;
and he may not be my last.
I'm not the only one
he's ever loved,
and I've loved many.

But does that not make
our love all the more
That it exists right now
when it might never have
existed at all?

And does that not make
our love all the more
That it exists in such

Does love grow
from shared experience?
If so, no wonder these roots
are so deep
so deep inside of me...
I have shared so much,
so much of myself with you.
Right from the start,
you reached into my chest
and grabbed my heart,
you've had my heart in your hand,
and when you walked away
you took it with you,
whether you noticed or not.
And I'm left to grow a new heart,
devoid of any experience
shared with you,
the thief, my careless thief.
My new heart cannot know you,
experience life with you.
For if it does,
you'll just take it, too,
when it loves you.
That's what you do.
That's who you are.
That's what our experiences have taught me.
That's what our love - my love - has taught me.

I stopped being pretty
when you stopped loving me.
Now I look
like my heart feels:
every crack shows,
every bruise.
Now I look
like I feel:
for I've lost you.

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