As I See It: A Picture Poem

As I See It 

I have stared at these pictures I took over the last several months, shuffled them about, and stared at them again, hoping the right words just come.  They didn't.  So there you have it.  A picture poem.  I don't know if this makes me a creative genius, or a lazy writer succumbing to the word blockage we all feel in the presents of beautiful things.  Poor excuse I guess.  Poets write about ugliness and beauty all the time; the fact that an image is worth a thousand more words than their little rhyme doesn't seem to stop them.  Well it stopped me and I willingly surrender.  My words would have sanded down the story these amateur phone-pictures tell.  I hope they tell you a story too, and I hope it's a good one, because you wont hear it from me.  

Stay dangerous my friends.  

  

Saving Paper

 

If feels like this

Paper.

This paper,

I mean.

I'll explain. 

Sorry.

Something's in my throat.

It's cold in here,

Isn't it?

How are you?

Oh,

Yes, 

Sorry.

This is what it feels like...

Would you like some coffee?

It's bad, 

It's really bad 

But I would take anything over this.

Perhaps that's why 

I'm on my third cup.

I'd take a slap.

Maybe a bullet in the gut.

Little more pain beneath 

The place it hurts the most.

You don't tell them 

What it feels like 

When you're convulsing on the floor,

With a one-size fits all 

Cavity in your stomach.

Sorry.

I'm not mad at you.

I would just rather be anywhere else 

But reading this poem right now.

I would leave 

But I live here.

This ugly off white paper,

Specks of that 

Second and third cup 

Of office coffee 

Freckled in brown on the page.

Bookmark tucked somewhere midway

On a chapter I don't want to be on.

Which feels like this:

Like the soft tissue 

That was my stomach 

Erupted into flakes of ash;

The spark catching flame

From a paper heart.

Did you know I have a paper heart?

Someone told me that once.

The kind of heart 

You only read 

Unfolded,

In paper and ink,

That you hold in your hand 

Until the sweat 

Of your fingertips 

Wrinkle the pages.

This eruption of grammatical inaccuracy,

This poem without rhyme 

Or rules,

But a map.

A map constructed 

By a five year old fist

Wielding a crayon.

The human attached,

(Also five),

Looked out the window 

From her booster seat,

And colored herself 

Into the lights that passed by.

Swinging from lamppost 

To telephone wire,

Like that cartoon she can't remember.

Because the girl with the crayon 

Isn't five anymore,

And she finds that the 

Tangled catastrophe of squiggles 

In the map she drew 

Fifteen years ago 

Was far more prophetic a picture 

Than she would like to admit.

And she is the fly entangled

In the cobwebbed scribbles. 

Her wriggling, 

Pathetic efforts

Buy her enough time 

To make the Spider laugh before lunch.

I'm sorry?

How does it feel?

Does it matter how it feels 

As long as it entertains? 

Not funny?

I suppose not.

If that's the case, 

Then let me ask you now:

If everyone you know,

Everyone,

Were like paper hearts

That you keep in a bundle 

Like the rest of your papers

You hold

But never re-read,

Every "I'll always be there" note,

Am I there?

Will I "always be there" too?

If you reach in your pocket, 

Can you still slit your finger 

On my sharp corners 

If you're not careful,

Or am I leathery and worn?

Does it matter how it feels?

Or do you just feel it?

Like slipping on a shirt.

Not because you must,

Not because it feels nice,

Because 

You just 

Do.

The eruption was vast,

Bright, 

Scorching,

Beautiful 

And intimately tortuous.

But what now?

Now the ashes 

Are just 

There.

Accumulated in a box 

Of some cremated idea,

Or hope,

Or inside joke,

Or "I'm here"

Scribbled and folded

Into a paper heart.

Sorry,

You were asking me a question.

I got side tracked.

It's getting warmer in here.

Alright here is my answer:

Honestly,

If I could place you in a printer 

Scanning all your habits,

Fears,

Hiccups, 

Your smell,

The shuffle of your sandals 

Against the cement 

As you walk up the drive way,

The wrinkles that form 

Above your eye brows

When I say something 

You pretend wasn't cleaver,

The corners of your eyes 

When they burn red 

In the weight of my words.

If I could capture all of this,

I would save a file 

Titled, "You",

Copy and paste 

And upload you to every hard-drive,

With every rhyme-less poem 

I've ever written,

Send you to every account,

And print two copies 

Incase one burned.

But I can't.

Simply put, 

The worst part of it all

Is that I cannot save you.

There is only one 

Hand written,

God breathed,

Signed and dated,

With your birth, 

And death,

One translation,

One copy,

One page of depth and humanity 

That no one but your author 

Can fully understand.

Full of errors 

And scribbles

And bleeding in red ink 

From love 

Unfathomable,

Unconditional,

Unlimited,

Within this limited,

One copy,

Hand written,

God breathed 

Piece of poetry 

Who is you.

Whom I cannot scan 

And back up 

And print 

And copy

And paste.

You whom I cannot save,

Are saved.

Alright.

Unfold this origami 

Of a heart in your pocket.

Smooth out the creases,

And tape the fraying edges.

Fold me into a paper plane

And toss me.

Let the molecules in the air

Carry me 

Somewhere you'll never come back.

Aim well;

You only have one shot.

And don't look behind you 

To see where I land.

This is what it feels like:

I'm torn.

But I'm saved.

That's all.

Thank you for this talk.

I just realized I'm publishing this one on Valentines day, I apologize, it is not in the least bit Valentines related. <3 But there is a very nice heart emoji for you.  Hope that lightens your day.

Been experimenting with more monologue type free style poetry.  (Yes I've been listening to too much Levi the Poet.  Also, go listen to Levi the Poet, he will make your life better).  I wrote this one when I was supposed to be doing homework in some parking lot, and I attempted to maintain the scrappiness of my setting within the style.