Buried under a ton of bricks, she tried to move.
What she liked to think is that it was only an analogy, but this time, it wasn't.
A writer writes about what she'll never experience, twenty broken bones, the unablility to walk or to feel her vagina ever again.
The sun, through the window, hit the mountain and she closed her eyes.
Concentrating on staying alive.
Outside her children were screaming for her, calling for help.
Escaping the situation, she thought that THIS would make a killer OPENING CHAPTER.
If only she could get the blood-dust out of her throat and bend her fingers over a keyboard she would write her fucking masterpiece.
A sentence through the Byzantine circuit-board:
"At the bottom of the hole in our house, I lied all these years."
As she pondered the title, her husband came running into the room,
the ambulance was on its' way.
The days to come drifted from sleep to sleep.
And at the end, she had nothing to show for the years of fooling herself.
Songs, books and movies kept at the house,
she dreamt of.
And where were her children?
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3 kommentarer:
one starving musician came by to say: very interesting blog you have here. Cheers from LA.
j.e.
killer ending!
This is a really interesting project you have going here. I've just read this one poem so far, but I'm interested.
A few notes (I hope you don't mind that I make suggestions -- as one poet to another, I'm sure you understand the urge to mess with another's draft). You use a lot of verbs ending in -ing. Although that's not inherently bad, sometimes just by changing the tense you can make the image stronger. In particular, I think "Outside, her children screamed for her, called for help" would be stronger than as it appears now. And a note on grammar: "its" is the possessive form, not "its'." (If that's just a typo, forgive me.)
Really looking forward to reading more! I never post my poems on my blog -- it's just assorted craziness.
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