Poem

Where I Am

Chris Leave a comment

I watch them grow
And I see them change
­                           Here where I am.
I see them move,
With great breadth and range,
                           Here where I am.

I saw them fall
And get up again
                           From where I am.
I watched them learn
What we might have been
                           From where I am.

They walk away
While I stay quiet
                           Right where I am.
I watch them go,
Filled with disquiet,
                           Right where I am.

I’m still standing,
After all these years,
                           Stuck where I was.
I’m stuck standing,
Rooted by my fears,
                           Still where I was.

­

Write Anything *In Progress*

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They told me I could write anything
And foolishly I believed them.
They ooh’d and aah’d at every word

Does “them” have any non-awful rhymes?

In the years since my accolades
I’ve learned a difficult lesson

Teachers say to write what you know
But I know about as much as Jon Snow
And though I’d hate to let these lines go
They don’t fit into this poem, so…

 

Writing about only hetero white dudes
Gets super friggin’ boring
If I did only that
All my readers would be snoring

(Turn the above ideas
Into something that fits
The poetic form
Of the previous bits)

 

Witty lines to point out my growth
That reference a fresh meme

 

I’ve learned I can’t write everything
So I wrote this poem instead.

 

My Words

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My words are precious to me:
Little puffs of warm air
That I constantly heat
By clutching them tight
To my chest and heart
Even when they grow too hot
And burn my hands
As they attempt to flee.

My words are few and quiet
When they are voiced at all:
Hoarded and groomed until
I am certain they are ready
For whatever task is at hand,
Yet they remain fragile things
That cannot be used again
Once I have let them go.

Many words are worth little
While few words are worth much:
Communication is expensive
But can be bought with either,
While understanding is expensive
And drives a hard bargain–
Often requiring many words
That had once been counted few.

My words are worth more to me
Than any amount of money:
People say that words are cheap
And some, in fact, may be,
But I think words are the currency
People use to buy and sell
Ideas, emotions, and knowledge
In the market of civilization.

Most of the time, when I talk,
I use words that are not mine:
I wrangle words from the air
And let them pass through me
So that they sound like mine
But only on the surface
As my own words are too few
For mass communication.

My words are precious to me:
Little slivers of my soul
All bound up in breath
Like wisps of vapor in winter,
Puffing from my open mouth
As I move through the world
And do the very best I can
To share some of my warmth.

Age 22

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Ever since I decided I wanted to do a parody of a Shakespearean Sonnet and wound up making it about the state of my life at 22, I’ve done a “state of my life” poem every year. They’re usually on the more thoughtful side or a way to address the biggest issue in my life at the time and, as a result, fairly thematically different. There’s one from last year that I’m not sure I want to share yet, so I’m going to hold off on that, but I’m going to share one of each of the others every day this week, culminating in the poem I came up with yesterday as my current “state of my life” poem. It’ll be pretty clear which one you’re reading as the titles give it away. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this week of poetry while I get my buffer set up and my writing routine worked out.

 

When I cannot play Minecraft, in disgrace
I weep for my poor soul’s addicted fate
And my computer, bootless in its place
And looking so sad in its broken state.
Wishing that it were not busted, a hope
Featured in dreams unending, I go on
Desiring to play but yet have to cope
With music videos I’ve come upon.
Yet I, my weakness almost despising,
Haply buy a new computer to play.
Like to a child at Christmas, arising
From my slumber to play Minecraft all day.
I think to myself, “What else should I do?”
Irrational? Me? No, just twenty-two.

Broken Words (My Self-Titled Post)

Chris 1 Comment

I’ve had this blog for over a year now, and I’ve never shared the poem that inspired the title. I think I’ve talked about it in the past, and I definitely remember writing about posting it eventually, but I figured that would be a good way to start my year of daily posts. And a way to solidify Friday as “Poetry Day” for my blog. So, here it is, without further introduction or preamble:

 

“Broken Words”

What point are there in words,
Hear how sweetly they sing,
When they fail to tell a tale
And no understanding bring?

What point are there in words,
So full of heart and love,
When they can be cast away
and easily disposed of?

What point are there in words,
So full of awe and wonder,
When they fall upon empty heads
And lose their flash and thunder?

What power is there in words,
Only so much empty wind,
That tumble out so carelessly
Like peels from an apple skinned?

What power is there in words,
Nothing more than empty lies,
That I will use to quiet
The tears that fall from your eyes?

What power is there in words,
Such simple seeming sounds,
That form the bones of our speech:
Verbs, adverbs, prepositions, and nouns?

What use have I for words,
Such lovely, crafted things,
When no one quite hears them
Despite their melodic rings?

What use have I for words,
So beautiful and bright,
When they cannot illuminate
Or show anyone the light?

What use have I for words,
So difficult and simple,
That cannot change a heart
Or cause an iron will to dimple?

What words have I to use,
A lexicon at my fingers,
To tell you of the thought
That cannot stay but lingers?

What words have I to use.
So many different choices,
To make you hear inside my head
The many clamoring voices?

What words have I to use,
So many and yet so few,
To make you understand
What I’m saying to you?

What point have I to make,
Flimsy as a tin foil,
That cannot be made by action
And take far less care and toil?

What point have I to make,
Nothing sharper than a spade,
When all the words are dead
And all their parts are played?

What point have I to make,
Swift and small as a pin,
That can pierce the patchwork
Armor that you wear within?

What power have I to take,
To steal so quick and sly,
Your mind and heart away
And leave you with a sigh?

What power have I to take,
Remove with nary a sound,
The echoes of your dreams
That hold you to the ground?

What power have I to take,
To shatter beyond repair,
What you thought you knew
And all that you hold dear?

What words are left to say,
To mumble murmur and mutter,
That will leave my thin mouth
Without a drawn out stutter?

What words are left to say,
Hollow sounds of passing air,
That will show you what I see
And teach you how I care?

What words are left to say,
Gurgle grumble and weep,
To convince you of the truth
That I, within me, keep?

What words of point and power,
To take and make and play,
Can I use to convince you
Of the truth of what I say?

The words of power that make,
The words of point that take,
No matter what one may say,
If you use these words,

they break.

 

Finally back after Suffering from Plumber’s Block

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I definitely suck at regular updates.

Now no one can say I didn’t warn them when I fall silent for a few weeks. I played a bunch of Pokemon Go until the 3-step bug made it impossible to find anything and then a lot of work-stress coupled with relief from a lot of different work stress has left me avoiding writing for a while. I’m working on getting back to it now (as you can plainly see), but I tend to wind up doing this a lot.

The first thing to go when I get stressed out or my depression starts acting up is my writing. The one thing I have that always grounds me, my most complete escape, my way to speaking out about what troubles me and I abandon it when I need it most. I want to be able to write because it is all those wonderful things for me, but it takes so much from me that I sometimes need to choose rest or not-writing instead. No matter what I want.

The first time I attended an event at which Patrick Rothfuss was appearing/answering questions, someone asked him about writer’s block. Patrick Rothfuss hemmed and hawed for a moment before saying that it was sort of ridiculous that writers have this condition unique to them that explains why some of us can’t seem to get anything written. He saw the somewhat negative reaction of the crowd and asked us to bear with him for a little bit while he explained what he meant.

He explained that, just like a plumber with a broken arm or the flu wouldn’t be expected to fix your plumbing, a writer shouldn’t expect themselves to write if they’re not feeling well. And that’s not just physical illness. He talked about mental illness and the impact it can have on a writer’s ability to work. Writer’s Block isn’t a diagnosable thing. We often use it to talk about times when we can’t write because of our mental health, but it is usually better to recognize what is actually in the way of us writing rather than blame it on something similar to the boogeyman. I often can’t write because of my depression and anxiety, so I own up to that, even if it is only to myself. That makes it a lot easier to get back to writing again since you know when you’re feeling better.

His thoughts about writer’s block really struck home for me and woke me from the sort of blind Hero Worship view I had of him. It made me really start to see him as a normal person. As a Human, rather than some object of worship or reverence. It was kind of like when you look at your parents and realize that they’re only humans as well. They’re not superheroes and to expect perfection from them is to deny them their humanity. To expect perfection from myself is to deny myself my humanity.

I wrote a poem on day when I was feeling a bit more cheerful and bit more blasé about the high expectations I have for myself. Like a lot of my poems, it started off with a bit of a random thought and ran from there.

 

If I were a god
I would be worshipped by frat boys and single mothers.
A god of beer drinking, simple living, and neat little recipes that your kids will love.

If I were a god,
I would be capricious and mighty but also incredibly lazy.
A god of harsh judgment and terrible wrath who just asks you to try to be better.

If I were a god,
I would stride the land cloaked in wind and thunder and rain.
A god of storms who brings nothing but rain on windows and thunder in the distance.

If I were a god,
I would grant my adherents visions of what might be.
I’d give my true believers the sight to see just what they could make of themselves.

If I were a god,
I would have the power to change the world to my liking.
I’d get so tired and angry with all the humans begging for help that I’d strike them down.

If I were a god,
I would encourage self-help and doing it yourself.
A god who helps those who help themselves and let the lazy stay in the dirt and dust.

If I were a god,
I would be most terrible and fearsome to behold.
I’d be the most beautiful entity in all of creation but far too bright to actually see.

If I were a god,
I would rid the world of evil and all that is wrong.
I’d strike down all of those who oppose me and bend the universe to my will.

If I were a god,
I would be an awful mess as you can clearly see.
I’d be breaking all my own rules and constantly at odds with myself.

If I were a god,
I wouldn’t be another human just trying to get by.
But that’s all I am so maybe I shouldn’t expect quite so much of me.

 

Silly and kinda peaceful, but with a bit of something to think about at the end. Exactly my preferred style. Definitely not my best work, but I’m not convinced I’ll ever be able to point to something and say “that’s my best work” so that phrase doesn’t really mean much. But it feels good, you know? To give myself permission to be just a little bit more human than usual.

But that’s why I tend to stop writing. Writing is hard. I have to spend a lot of time in my head and that’s not always such a great place to be. Gaming and reading get me out of my head and into something else. It’s a different kind of escape, specifically for when I need to escape me instead of the world. But now I’m ready to deal with me again so here I am. Updating my blog and working a daily writing session into my schedule.

Cut yourself some slack today. Just, you know, let it go for a bit and pick it up later.