Current Mood:  okay
Current Music: Watching Will and Grace
Its Wednesday, which means my unofficial day to post a poem. Its strange, but I find myself looking forward to this, its nice getting something of mine out there, even if it is only really seen by me. This week has been oddly difficult for me, the whole Va. Tech thing has me a bit depressed and distracted. It shouldn't bother me, but everything I see (emails from school, the news, random digg articles) reminds me off it, and I can't get it out of my head. I haven't really talked to any of my friends, and while I know they are fine...I don't know, it just makes me nervous. I was late getting out of my shower, so I would be late for class if I left after I was done getting ready. That doesn't really matter, I guess.
I'm stalling while I try to think of a poem to post that people may want to read.
Ok, so this one is a bit confusing, its still in the editing stages. The assignment was a rhetoric poem (rhetorical, questions...what have you). Basically, the main character is having a conference of her various abstractions (Happiness, Safety, a blank page, Recognition), if that makes any sense. I need to de-confusify it, let me know what you think.
Conference Hall A I threw blank page from the quiet stage and it bounced back claiming he was no longer blank and would like his piece of the moon’s silhouette if I was cutting, please the page smirked, played piano without watching the keys chanting You shouldn’t have to supply the vacant music stand with ears, strike it with a rock— it will sound a New York subway train, franticly look for hearing, sniff for syllables… addressing abstractions always made me nervous (well, other than him) He pushed me down center I blanked “Happy? Safe?” no answer. audible throat clear. “Recognition? hello. I know. yes, before you abstain, let me. I have—” he was mauve “—questions. will red conquer rose in its sleep. will I ever stop being the rock and admit you were. do you know self-fulfilling prophesy well enough to cut her figure from black muslin.” the sound of a room full of abstractions holding their breath. do I need—“ he stumbled, Do not say you. I will turn around. Everyone you know their backs turned. A picture firmly planted in my posterior.” “page, give me your hands. everyone I know there, backs turned, will chant for him, turn him round, deny the posterior mirror is present, blame backs for turning shaggy heads. Recognition?” Yes? “page, stand, stage, and I we are grateful, proud to see you again, but—” a blank shove from page “but need not. yes I’m sure.” | ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8){kind=small}
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