I spent most of my Monday afternoon cleaning out my garage. There are so many things that I have to purge including a old Roxy long board (barf) and a pathetic excuse for a microwave that I have shared many a Hot Pocket with. Luckily, I also uncovered some lost treasures including a bag of clothes I thought I outgrew (that I didn’t) and a poem I’d written ages ago, scrawled on a piece of torn notebook paper. I read it and decided that it was more honest and heartfelt than anything I’ve written of late. No idea when poem was written or why it was written; it’s not dated, it’s untitled, and it appears to be composed in one breath. I tend to fill the page with gratuitous scribbles and edits. This was eerily spotless. Clearly, I was determined to convey inexpressible feelings expressively somehow and when left to my own devices, I pick up the pen and bang out emo verse.
I was probably passionately in love with someone, but of course, trapped in my mental purgatory of emotional insecurity and self-loathe. Or, I could have just been really bored. In any case, reading it made me a little wistful and nostalgic about all the love I’ve lost or left behind.
Your love is like a river
and I float on that river
I want to be on that river
alone but forever with you.
Amplified tragic culminations of we are two then one and one
and I am yours but yours is somewhere
trapped in another cavity.
Legs embracing arms embracing lips
smothering breasts and genuine disparity between me and her?
Because, Lover, your love is like a river
a ghetto, a visualized concept of swimming
a moment, explicitly under-produced,
of I am alone and
still forever with you.