Disjointed Equilibrium
March 7th, 2016
I sometimes wonder
on these thawing days,
when the sun finally seems to retain the ability to heat a planet recently
coated in petals of frost and buds of ice,
if my ability to write poetry only exists when I am suddenly forced to release
any hold of control I have
or if
I can only breathe life and
possibly a deeper meaning into wrinkled lines when
I begin to feel crumpled waves pressing against already fractured and folded lungs.
Once upon a time,
poems seemed to leak from every orifice of my being,
shambles of similes and corrugated conceits scrawled against endless pages,
as if their existence was the air I needed to breathe,
to pretend I was living instead of just
existing.
Once upon a time,
I had a muse,
something aiding me in my projection of stained stanzas,
some external being or body
guiding each pen stroke as
knit lines and cracked comparisons
streamed together, tangling into pieces of usable poetry.
But somehow,
as leaves bloomed in flame and their ashes painted
snow coated whispering hills,
I have lost the retention of beautiful verse,
have forgotten the taste of inspiration,
have forgotten the the feeling of
being free from reckless, poisoned attachment.
Now,
I can’t ever seem to form words that
can convey how much I need
something to finally break free or just give way,
how much the cables of tension coiled around me
need to release their unrelenting handhold.
I don’t think my lungs and windpipe
have ever been this constricted with
all the unknowns and uncharted revolutions
circling me on maddening, mounting
pulses of worry.
Words are garbled and clotted in my
already ink-tinted veins
and yet they can’t seem to say
how lost and unsure I have become,
can’t seem to capture the impressions of personifications forgotten
or the feeling of a peace
that no longer dusts these corrugated tendons.
How can they accurately describe how empty and lonely
the darkness is when I wake to the shadows of
memories and haunted stories
no longer tangible or reconcilable?
How can they instill that sense of panic and
anxiety blooming beneath splintered, flowered ribs
and how fear floods and seeps between
every piece of burrowed skeleton,
making me question every possibility,
every decision
I have ever held in my scalloped palms and
bent fingers?
I think the problem is
I’ve always loved words.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve always loved too deeply but
When I was a young teen
I attempted to read the entire dictionary,
underlining my favorite words and
convoluted definitions,
hoping that their meanings would enlighten me
as to why they’re constantly frustrating me.
Maybe if I could keep lists of coveted interpretations
in my tattered back pockets
I’d finally preserve the capability of
poetry expressing every complicated,
convex
feeling in my scarred, unadulterated being.
Eventually the lists
disintegrated,
absorbed in a relentless washing machine
or hidden between fraying couch cushions.
Their definitions lost their clarity and
here I am,
five years later,
still trying to carve poetry into membrane-thin pages,
thinking that maybe this time something will have changed.
Maybe writing won’t feel like I’m drowning and
floundering on solid ground all at
the same time.
Maybe this time,
it won’t feel as if I’m spreading liquid mush onto
unreceptive pages,
maybe it won’t feel as if every word is a battle and every line a war.
Eventually
one of these poems will have to be
inspired by something other than the same eroded seams
and disoriented possibilities.
The poems born of the wicked silence in the
small hours of the morning
may be finally conceived from
memories untainted and
pieces of me I have yet to see
breached or fractured.
But for now I will wonder
if I can only perceive the sensation of
shriveled stanzas and buckled ballets
when everything hangs in a state of
disjointed equilibrium.
March 7th, 2016
I sometimes wonder
on these thawing days,
when the sun finally seems to retain the ability to heat a planet recently
coated in petals of frost and buds of ice,
if my ability to write poetry only exists when I am suddenly forced to release
any hold of control I have
or if
I can only breathe life and
possibly a deeper meaning into wrinkled lines when
I begin to feel crumpled waves pressing against already fractured and folded lungs.
Once upon a time,
poems seemed to leak from every orifice of my being,
shambles of similes and corrugated conceits scrawled against endless pages,
as if their existence was the air I needed to breathe,
to pretend I was living instead of just
existing.
Once upon a time,
I had a muse,
something aiding me in my projection of stained stanzas,
some external being or body
guiding each pen stroke as
knit lines and cracked comparisons
streamed together, tangling into pieces of usable poetry.
But somehow,
as leaves bloomed in flame and their ashes painted
snow coated whispering hills,
I have lost the retention of beautiful verse,
have forgotten the taste of inspiration,
have forgotten the the feeling of
being free from reckless, poisoned attachment.
Now,
I can’t ever seem to form words that
can convey how much I need
something to finally break free or just give way,
how much the cables of tension coiled around me
need to release their unrelenting handhold.
I don’t think my lungs and windpipe
have ever been this constricted with
all the unknowns and uncharted revolutions
circling me on maddening, mounting
pulses of worry.
Words are garbled and clotted in my
already ink-tinted veins
and yet they can’t seem to say
how lost and unsure I have become,
can’t seem to capture the impressions of personifications forgotten
or the feeling of a peace
that no longer dusts these corrugated tendons.
How can they accurately describe how empty and lonely
the darkness is when I wake to the shadows of
memories and haunted stories
no longer tangible or reconcilable?
How can they instill that sense of panic and
anxiety blooming beneath splintered, flowered ribs
and how fear floods and seeps between
every piece of burrowed skeleton,
making me question every possibility,
every decision
I have ever held in my scalloped palms and
bent fingers?
I think the problem is
I’ve always loved words.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve always loved too deeply but
When I was a young teen
I attempted to read the entire dictionary,
underlining my favorite words and
convoluted definitions,
hoping that their meanings would enlighten me
as to why they’re constantly frustrating me.
Maybe if I could keep lists of coveted interpretations
in my tattered back pockets
I’d finally preserve the capability of
poetry expressing every complicated,
convex
feeling in my scarred, unadulterated being.
Eventually the lists
disintegrated,
absorbed in a relentless washing machine
or hidden between fraying couch cushions.
Their definitions lost their clarity and
here I am,
five years later,
still trying to carve poetry into membrane-thin pages,
thinking that maybe this time something will have changed.
Maybe writing won’t feel like I’m drowning and
floundering on solid ground all at
the same time.
Maybe this time,
it won’t feel as if I’m spreading liquid mush onto
unreceptive pages,
maybe it won’t feel as if every word is a battle and every line a war.
Eventually
one of these poems will have to be
inspired by something other than the same eroded seams
and disoriented possibilities.
The poems born of the wicked silence in the
small hours of the morning
may be finally conceived from
memories untainted and
pieces of me I have yet to see
breached or fractured.
But for now I will wonder
if I can only perceive the sensation of
shriveled stanzas and buckled ballets
when everything hangs in a state of
disjointed equilibrium.