It feels like I’m having to rip these words from the very matter of my brain. It is painful and I’m unsure what to write because I don’t know what I want to say. Part of me doesn’t want to say a damn thing. I am too sore, too empty, too lonely… but those are all beautiful reasons to write, despite how bad those feelings are.
Not only does my brain need to be coaxed and smacked and ripped, so does my heart because it doesn’t know where it wants to go either. I think I find something it wants, but then… it doesn’t want it anymore.
I’m left completely unsatisfied, eternally. No love, no commitment; just emptiness, pain, grief.
Oh grief, so much grief…
And I feel like I’m bearing it all alone.
Thoughts of whether or not I believe in a higher power, or if I’ll force myself to for the illusion of comfort. I miss ritual, I miss stability.
I desire a person, but so it seems no person desires me, or at least hasn’t spoken up about it.
So, here I start again, putting words down, recording them for people to see.
Here I start again.
(Written off the cuff)
Details Given: Girl, red hair, green eyes, black grand piano, yellow rose petals, e minor 13th
What I created from those in an hour:
The auditorium had emptied, leaving the grand piano looking like a child’s toy from the balcony view. The little boy stood against the railing, pudgy hands folded together, chin resting there. Brown doe eyes gazed down, blinking slowly every so often. On his tip toes, he rocked back and forth on each foot.
The wooden boards held a muddled reflection of a young woman. Her body was slender, an emerald A-line dress, a black sash wrapped around her waist, creating an hour glass figure. She reached the center of the stage, paused and looked down at her hands, long fingers that made her sigh, she tilted her head sideways for a moment.
Slowly her eyes closed and she took in a slow deep breath, her collar bone rising, rib cage expanding as her lungs fill up with air. Grass green eyes flickered up to the balcony, she noticed the young boy, but returned back to her thoughts; eyes trailing back down, across the rows and rows of seats, the color of red wine and structured in brass, glinting dully in the light.
Doe-eyed little boy lifted his head when the slender phantom of a woman continued across the stage, the eye contact caused his breath to flood his lungs quickly, and he swallowed it down. One hand resting on the railing, he began to suck his thumb and walked, at a slow pace almost matching the woman’s.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, those delicate fingers reached the ebony body of the piano, the contact becgan to cause a tug at the corner of her mouth. The black beauty was half way open, the hammers and dampers, resting ever so perfectly against strings pulled taut. Sprinkled on the keys were petals; petals of a rich yellow satin, they had also found their way onto the bench and floor surrounding the legs. She pushed herself a clean place to sit, resting her right hand gently on the snow white keys. Sliding out of her heels, she gently swept them aside, then pressed down her toes agaisnt the cold metal of the sustain pedal, then pressed down a e minor 13th chord, allowing the piano to sing. Almost as if following the sound as it echoed through the auditorium, she looked up to the empty space where the child had been. The prelude to a smile melted and she looked to the music in front of her.
A letter lay there.
But she wasn’t ready to open it; she had to, but she needed a few more moments, just a moment more.
Letting her eyes close, she held back tears, she could feel them burning at her eye lids. Chin tipping down, loose crimson locks tumbled down her shoulders, hovering over and contrasting the emerald of her dress. As she tried to inhale, the air caught in her throat, the catch audible outside of her body.
Wrapping her hair around a finger, she closed her eyes, comforted in the familiar action. Extending her left hand, she gently gripped the corner of the envelope. Sliding her thumb beneath the cream colored paper, listening as the seal broke, she pulled out the hand written letter from its resting place, the outer shell falling to the floor.
Forcing her eyes open, she placed her hair behind her ear and, slowly as molasses, unfolded the letter.
Fluttering her eyes, she savored the words written on the page.
A small hand settled softly onto her wrist, a gasp escpaed from her, she looked at the boy, head turning slowly. His doe eyes looking at her, unaware of her inner toil, thumb still in his mouth.
With tears now gently streaming, dripping onto petals that had fallen into her lap from the keys, she dropped the letter.
She placed a hand on his cheek, stroking gently with her thumb. Watery meadow mosaic eyes gazed at the child. Her other hand running through his shaggy brown curls, pulling his forehead towards her, and rosey lips pressed against his skin.
Arms wrapping around him, she pulled him into an embrace of agape, now allowing herself to cry.
Mathematics and Poetry are… the utterance of the same power of imagination, only that in the one case it is addressed to the head, in the other, to the heart. ~Thomas Hill
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman. ~Wallace Stevens,Opus Posthumous, 1957
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession. ~Robert Frost
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. ~Jean Cocteau
Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. ~Rita Dove
Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them. ~Dennis Gabor