Monday, February 20

True Blue

Been a few days since I've posted anything, so I thought perhaps it was time to share something new.  I wrote this poem as I lay sprawled out across the floor in my bedroom trying to work on a different poem.  It wasn't really coming to me, though, so I just started writing what was happening in my head.  It was sort of a brief exploration of my writer's block.

Like it?  Don't like it?  Let me know below!  If you find that you DID enjoy it, I'd love it if you'd share it with your pals.

True Blue

Two hundred and six pounds of mushy me
Lay across this too-blue-to-be-true-blue carpet,
Ankles crossed, large head resting on the pinched vein
Of a restless elbow that feels like buzzing.
The hair croaks “chaos” in a turbulent mess
Of chestnut flames that dance with every breath as these
Graphite words trace the flight of a moth too close to my cowlick,
Then, a mutinous elbow, and with a crash this face falls
Into the blue with a kiss of indifference.

An old wintertime housefly of ideas
Drones lifelessly, until
Sunlight vanishes as it pours through the site of the crash.
Now rouses a two hundred and six pound entomologist,
An insect coroner intent on autopsy
But an intertangled beard keeps his face pinned to the floor.


1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed the part where you mention your massive head. Also, "insect coroner intent on autopsy" was my favorite part. I liked this a lot.