Fiction has always been my forte. I usually stick to what I know. But recently I have gotten into the practice of doing free writes in a journal. This was a suggestion I picked up from the great book, Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg.
The act of putting pen to paper is so different than writing on a computer. I found it refreshing, tapping into a different part of my creative brain. I would like to share a free write that I did on the bus home from New York City last weekend. I decided to type it up in the form of a poem.
This is something vastly different from the work I usually do and I am looking forward to any comments or suggestions that my fellow bloggers would like to share. As always, and in any capacity, Happy Writing.
I dreamt of the terrifying fear of jumping off the high dive.
I swore I was in love.
I was so happy
And woke up feeling so sad.
I am powerless in your presence.
I feel pain and hurt and I haven’t seen you for years.
Does this make me weak or does this make me a butterfly?
Am I transforming?
I no longer know if I have wings or if I have toes.
I apologize for my inadequacies.
I apologize for my restless, ruthless emotions.
Why should I shun my failures?
Why shouldn’t I sit on a park bench with nothing but an empty coffee cup?
I like to feel the subway rattling below me.
Last night in bed I felt it again, but further removed
No physical shaking, just a soft noise
Like a moan or a creak of the bed.
Was that it?
Is that all he has for you?
Maybe there is more, but I won’t stay around long enough to find out.
I want to feel the bones under my skin.
How does the sun look in your eyes when you wake?
Will I ever get the chance to know that beautiful secret?
There are so many cars.
But are there as many cars as gravestones?
I would count but I don’t have the time.
My time is more important than money.
I want to lick a penny.
I want to write until the bones in my hand turn to jelly.
New York is there-
On the other side of that hill.
The wind blows all the reeds in the same direction
A Canadian Goose stands alone by the side of the highway.
The Turkey Vulture makes fun of its long neck.
I love your long neck.
I want to bite till I draw blood.
I want you to remember me forever.
Why are people biking?
Why is everyone exercising and smoking cigarettes?
I see your face everywhere I look
But it’s only a memory and you are a stranger.
Billboards ask me questions that make me self-conscious.
I always make the wrong decisions.
Where am I going now?
Best not to ask.
It’s strange to see green again, like I don’t believe in Spring.
Soccer fields show their wear with bare patches of dirt.
How does mine show?
I am transparent.
I am a dandelion in a hurricane:
I am a circle and you are a square.
I hate your corners.
I want to smooth down your edges so we can finally fit together.
I slept until Hartford where I got off to buy a coffee,
To scold my insides back to life.
Remember me: Life?
No, give me more death.
Please, I’m not ready for this shit.
I’m not ready to be surrounded by passengers asking me the same question fifty different ways.
I’m not ready to go back into the woods with two people in love
And a bunch of animals who won’t show themselves.