You look, I die

I can write a pile of sentences, reread them and don’t find myself. They are often not good enough. They lack the strength to dig deep, take it out and spill it on paper. Bleeding heart calls for writing in blood and all I see is black ink on a dull white paper. Nonsense. Friday was good and I even believed I was getting better. And then came Saturday. You looked. I died. Again.

I want to take you off
Like summer hat in fall
Throw off your arms like gloves
That wouldn’t keep me warm
No more
Shake drops of voice
Out of my ears
Soaked in the cold
Of ruthless storms
Your words
Wipe off that touch
Out of the creases
Of my palm
You stick to me
Cling to my thinking
Roll down the spine
With drops of sweat
Making me shiver
In aching dreams
Can’t loving die
So I can live
Wait not just yet
Resists the heart
In which small room
Is filled with charcoals
Blue and orange
And amber
Like your world
I throw them in the fire
Where your ice
Is melted
Your picture out of the corner
Looks into me
I read a smile
In picture’s eyes
Hate never came
Into this room
It never will
My eyes meet yours
Was ever love
Inside your look
Did I misread it
Did I
Just throw your picture in the fire
My shaking hands
Are burnt
But it won’t burn
I cover it with charcoals
They turn to flowers
You still look
Right back into me
Your eyes
Your soul
Half... I’ll never know
And of that look
I die.


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Carrie said...

You write the way I've always wished I could. i completely relate to your first paragraph. I often feel that I have something deep inside of me longing to escape in stunning poetry, but words are never adequate. I find I can't dig below about 2 layers, while everything is resting inside me under hundreds. *Sigh*

We are kindred spirits.

Jules said...

Hey Carrie,
Thanks so much for the feedback! It is twice as valuable coming from an artistic person like you. I think your writing is great too, and I think it's normal to be self-critical. I am almost never completely satisfied with my posts. I carry ideas in my head long after they are born... sleep with them... shower with them... drive with them for hours... before I actually dare to put them in writing. And even then, I rewrite each word so many times. It's good to strive to perfection. Only perfection is such a foggy notion when it comes to creativity. What's ideal in one person's eyes is a complete waste of words in another's. When I write here, I can only hope that at least one in 20 people who read this will find a thing or two they can relate to, or an idea that will make them think or self-reflect, or simply a verse that will make them smile.

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