Starving Contentment

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Like music swallows its bass inside the belly of the loud speakers their stomachs growl,
but they ain’t really hungry….
they just come to see what all the commotion is like….
they wanna know what all this poetry stuff is but……
they ain’t really hungry……
they just wanna see how pretty her pain is.

Writing Addiction Symptom #3: Dirty Diapers and Complaining Husbands

junkie1

• Dirty Diapers and Complaining Husbands

 
Oh you know the feeling. You make yourself a cup of Joe, get back to that switch button, and for the next 8 hours or so (hey, that’s pretty modest), you’ve taken yourself a mini vacation. Where are you going? Who knows, somewhere between Character Development and Turning Points; your only problems are: screaming kids, annoyed husbands and microwaved dinners. You’ve been at that computer so long your one year old knows what a Setting is, (and it’s not from the soggy Wheaties in his diaper either). Your husband has brought over his annoying friend for company (yes, the one you can’t stand), and your nine year old has painted her face pink and red at your distracted consent. Now, I want you to pay attention now because this is important:

 
The writer herself (yours truly), has neither one year old or nine year old and what you’ve just read is a list of completely made up events but, the fact that you’ve spent the last two minutes glued to these words in order that you may verify this condition is reason enough to count you among the worthy so take a bow, I now present to you the following prescription:

 

pres

CAUTION: If you’ve counted my every grammatical error I’m sorry but Grammatical Geeks is for another day and this prescription is not for you.

YOUR NAME HERE
Rx #1234567A
WRITER ADDICTION RELIEF 500mg Tab
TAKE ONE TABLET BY WRITING/TYPING EVERY DAY FOR WRITERS BLOCK
***TAKE WITH INSPIRATION

 

 

The Relationship – My Love Affair with Poetry

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Smitten.

You know the feeling

that refreshing taste of newness

the aching agony that occurs merely from having to wait

until you can see him again

the love sick hurricane in your stomach

just to hear him say your name

the sweat that hides itself beneath your fingertips

when he’s around

the sudden sense of laughter

upon seeing his face

because you know like he does

the secret that lets its guard down

upon the blinking of your eyelids

the pace of a heartbeat

when a word of kindness escapes his lips

you know it

the feeling of fresh love

like the aroma of gourmet coffee

like when the caffeine simply invites you

like the pupils of his eyes when they mentally undress you

because the kindness pouring forth from these thoughts

is strangely exhilarating

the feeling that reminds you

why you were ever single,

the masculinity of a voice

strong, and incredibly calm

whatever I could do to convince poetry that it was necessary that we speak

was a chance to breathe,

for he was a ventilator

and I just needed air.

so I rushed home just to grab a book

or pry open my diary

and hold his thoughts in my hand until my paper

bled its first period.

Deeper.

Over time, we got closer and I became more open

I grew out of childhood

and demanded more attention from my lover

I became jealous and obsessive with my need to be seen with him

in the classroom, in the library, and late into Open mic nights

I ate up words with the speed of speech

and wrapped alliterations

around alphabets

like it was oxygen.

Smoking lyric

and sipping on rhythm slow

like the stride

of a black man

Commitment.

It was no longer convenient to lock me away,

cover me under the flap of notebooks and journals,

it was time to come out of the closet.

I tried to stay focused really,

but paper had proved to be too cluttered

and too slow for us,

too polluted to allow the thing we’d attempted through privacy

to ever grow into what I needed

How could I allow our particular version of intimacy

to be buried by the commas and blue lines

and falling parenthesis that make up the creative world?

After all, we were in love and as such it was time for marriage

and the introduction of this relationship

into the mainstream

The way these words were so finely crafted

almost as if they wrapped themselves around my lips

and took trips inside my memories

Euphoria

any feeling this good has got to be a sin…isn’t it?

No,

What I’d stumbled upon was a gift and no,

this was not a transgression of law

this

was

love.