I know very little about poetry. I like things that are juvenile – things that rhyme – and most poetry makes no sense to me. A poem is supposed to have a meter and a flow which all sound great in theory until I read one.
So I wrote a jumble of words. Is it poetry? Honestly, I don't know or care. It's definitely a mixed meter. When I write – no matter what it is – all I want is to feel something. I hope you feel something too, but I’m not selfless enough to write for an audience. I want to make myself laugh or cry or think because most of my waking moments are spent trying to dull or ignore those emotions.
I’m not supposed to
laugh when my husband and I are arguing, or when my kids are upset, but I do. I’m not supposed to cry when my kids are singing with Miley Cyrus in the back of the minivan on the way to dance lessons,
but I do. And thinking? Well, I either do too much of it or I shut down and do none at
all. But at three in the morning, everyone is asleep and I can feel whatever I want.
So no, I don’t think this is poetry. It’s a jumble of words
that mean something to me. Oh, and they rhyme sometimes because I like it.
Every time I think of you
I pop an elastic band around my wrist
– it’s painful, too –
– it’s painful, too –
to clear a thought or memory
of things you never did to me.
More a habit, never love,
now it’s not you I’m thinking of.
A mindless blank, an open space,
my thoughts of you they do replace.
They’re uncomfortable like misfit pants.
Better discomfort does remain.
I’ll always choose to pick my pain.
I’ll find a thought to swaddle me.
You’re not even a memory.
