So, I don't read poetry, I don't write poetry, I don't really care about poetry. Ironically, the first piece I ever had published was a poem.
Something's been bothering me for over a month now and I couldn't figure out how to deal with it. Then, at 12:30 am yesterday, as I was trying to fall asleep in my boss's living room to the sound of a little boy crying, the first line of a poem popped into my head. (For the record, this poem is NOT about the crying little boy.) From there, everything else just fell into place in my head. I wrote it out as a prose poem last night before bed and revisited it today. I like it as prose poetry, but I liked it even better as poetry, so I broke it up, enjambed it to my liking, added concrete imagery and ended up with this:
Left Unsaid
Sometimes, I really
Can’t stand you.
Like when you relate everything
Back to sex.
Or how you never ask about
My opinions or thoughts.
My favorite position
On what issue?
Then I see you in person
And you’re attractive
With your ashy blonde hair and
Your whiter than eggshells smile.
You’ve got this scent,
Light as celery and
Prominent as peppermint.
You tease to make me laugh,
So I flirt
Because it’s easy.
I like to see you objectify me.
I like to twist you through my fingers
Until you can’t escape.
I like to think of you as my conquest.
Not yours.
You say I make you nervous,
That you can’t think straight around me.
You ask me
All the time
If I’ve forgotten you.
It’s how you start every
Conversation that ends pointlessly.
You say you really like me.
Which part of me?
You never said until
You got in my bed.
The immature part of me says
I should be happy
Because I won the
Battle of sexes.
The grown woman in me
Stays silent because
She feels nothing.
And neither do I.
No success or disappointment,
And no attachment to you.
Just emptiness and complete
Disinterest.
What goes left unsaid
Is why I bothered with you at all?
I have no answer.
As you can see, it needs some work. I got rid of the biggest cliches, but I've been trained to hunt down and eradicate every cliche in a piece of literature or poetry, so even things like the word "bothered" bothers me. And the ending stanza was a last minute addition that is VERY WEAK. Especially the last line. Gross.
Oh well. I'm gonna try and get my professors to help me with it (since I'm not in a poetry class where I could workshop it) and get it cleaned up in time to hand it into the Acorn Review (of which I'm an editor). I'd turn it in as is, but I'd rather have it down to minimal errors before the editing staff rips it to shreds in front of me. :P
Comments and constructive criticism is welcome! So is telling me I should stick to fiction writing - I know I'm no poet. :P
