A Curious Girl: Poetical angstings

I've started writing poetry again. Not sure if this is a good thing. It's mainly "journal" poetry, ie. thoughts written spontaneously in a vaguely poetic form, which is my favourite type of poetry to write because it doesn't have to be good. Last year I went to a poetry open mic night and read out a poem on homesickness (everybody say aaw!). One person told me it was very sweet, and another (which, in a way, was more of a compliment) gave me some ideas on how to improve it. Improve it? I thought. But I'm not homesick, and improving a poem on homesickness when not homesick would be profoundly dishonest. I guess I could view it as an independent work of art, exhibiting truths about homesickness for the benefits of my listeners, but generally I don't ever edit my poems (though I do occasionally rewrite them, I always save the old versions) because that would be a bit like re-writing an old diary entry.

Here's one I wrote yesterday.

Letter from the Cell
Dear world, I want out
If you'll have me
This great prison must be torn down
And prisoners released
There's Fear, Anger, Doubt
Holding hostage
Love, Creativity, Peace and Graciousness
The saint and the beast
From,
Prisoner HL83
Cellblock Me
Dear prisoner, stupid girl
These criminals can't be let out
For Doubt is a troublemaker
With his questions and qualms
And Fear a carouser who cannot be calmed
And to keep the world quiet, it can't be denied
That anger is much better off kept inside
As for the others-
In a place where efficiency and
wealth are kings it would appear
we've really no use for those prisoners here
Yours faithfully,
The World

Oh, and this I wrote about a week ago, which I feel apologises for itself in the first stanza. I can't believe I'm so pretentious that I actually use the world 'stanza'. It's untitled, which does not, contrary to popular belief, mean that its title is "Untitled".

I thought that all I ever wanted
Was to be the greatest poet
And my humble rhymes entranced a few
To wonderment and awe - but then I knew
That poetry wasn't what I was made for
I thought that all I ever wanted
Was to have the perfect singing voice
And to my choice of melodies I could carry a tune
Perhaps I would improve
But the music ceased to move me
And singing ceased to satisfy
I thought that all I ever wanted
Was to pass all my exams
I failed them anyway and found I didn't care*
If I had got an A I don't know where I might have gone
But I often feel I wouldn't like it there
I thought that all I ever wanted
Was to beat my Solitaire high score
Spending hours clicking at the screen, what for?
A higher score than ever, but to my dismay
A game of Patience laid to waste my entire day
I thought that all I ever wanted
Was to have a lot of friends
What I got were funny people
We passed the time, we had a ball
They didn't know me at all
Then I knew that all I wanted was to be taken by the hand
By someone who would see my heart and truly understand
What I'd wanted wasn't living, it was just getting by
A million things to show for it
But no answer as to why I bother to exist
I keep on breathing air
A million great experiences - nothing to compare
To that still subtle moment
When you find out what you're for
And your poor frozen soul isn't lonely anymore

So yes, a little exaggerated, kinda angsty, some dry humour; it's just like me. Try it yourself - journal poetry. Write what you feel like, start each line with a capital letter, and you just can't go wrong.

* Note to parents: This is a literary device known as hyperbole. Now stop hyperventilating :)

Random word for today: perjorative

<< last entry ... next entry >>
top of page

Give food for free.