Something about the warmth of the womb and the chill of the tomb

Solitude sits in wait.

A most persistent patron.

For once cut from the mother,

Till breath of death doth seize,

a heart beats

alone.

I was supposed to just copy down a poem that I wrote while waiting for my $16 eggs and toast from this very nice cafe/nursery spot a while ago and posted on tumblr. (Everything about this hurts to say) But I can’t let things sit can I? Here’s the original:

Solitude in wait

A most persistent patron

Your only friend come fate

Once cut from the mother

Till breath of death doth seize

A heart beats alone

In the quiet moments

A tinnitus ring

No punctuation. The tinnitus part is just thrown in there at the end. The word doth is used. I mean come on.

It sucks to write poems. There’s a lot of obstacles to it. Mental, societal, physical even. The modern state of poetry is probably at most blame for that. The poets of old are very respected aren’t they? But today I think its the same failings as modern art. Random splashes on a too big canvas. The odd new release poetry book, and the stuff shown to me in my collegiate creative writing classes, were a mess. Multi media with pictures of weird shit, taped in newspaper clippings. Or just three words in a row that doesn’t mean anything until you ask some too heavily lipsticked wannabe french chick about it and turns out the artist behind the piece was born in this impoverished part of Asia and ate only fermented fish tails and moved to America where they were beaten to death by an angry mob of shoe salesmen and with their last breath they wrote these three words

Salty

Eagle

Tread

And then looking back at Shakespeare and the like and you can only be daunted by their rightfully renowned works that I’ll certainly never achieve. So it always comes back to why write poetry at all? You have to get over the hurdles of you thinking you have anything worth saying, the walls of stigma around the practice, and the battle to pick up a pen and paper and bother writing it down. The answer is: you write poetry for you.

I could call cut right there and that’d be a good take maybe. But it’s just more bologna.

I think part of why I write poetry is that I want to be that guy a little bit. Maybe my name gets remembered and people like what I have to say. But what convinced me to really give it a shot is that I think I’m (we’re) in a unique position to put some feelings down on paper, for future peoples to see, that might explain how I felt when I lived. I think we live in a time of novel horror. I think this “blog” might help to further that end. I think it might also help people right now think about stuff more. I think a lot of the awful of everyday is ignored and put under the rug, and I want to pull it out and wave it around.

So what’s that little poem that I don’t like the more I look at it have to do with it? I don’t know man, once you aren’t PART of your mom, you are forever separate in vast ways no matter how close to another person you get.

and I have a ring in my ears boohoo