The thoughts and extended writings of she.
Literature and Photography by artist: GMSpear.
visit GMSpear.com for more details.
(all entries in this journal are the sole property of the user. please do not claim, alter, or reproduce)
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By-the-Book
I paint and paint and paint.
I photograph and recreate
the world that no one sees—
overlooked.
My finger nails are stained;
the pigment never dissipates.
And its all I’ve tried be:
by-the-book.
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hypocritical
Rather a caustic beginning,
smashing my ankle on the exposed stair corner.
The traffic driving and my train running late,
typical.
All this for a chance at winning,
to be early and surprise her,
because “all artist live in a delayed state.”
Hypocritical.
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Gunning
Lavender I picked from the garden
the day my allergies were hurting my ears,
like elevation changes at paces far faster than walking,
running.
Plucking the stems before they harden,
before the plague of starved locust-like deer
could tear the leaves and strip the just ripened stalks;
gunning.
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gmspear on Mad Swirl
http://madswirl.com/content/poetryforum.html
“Sunk” was the April 2nd poem of the day.
Here is a link to the original poem post on tumblr:
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Pursuits
I am tactless and tired.
I’m all and uninspired,
but I’ve still written to you everyday.
It seems like love would give way
to the pain and despair that draws ever near
and talks to me like I wish you would—
like a caring one for the misunderstood;
Or is it that this cruelty suits your pursuits?
And I am simply not worth your cahoots,
anymore?
Then thank me and show me to the door.
Or does your spine not stand so straight
And goodbyes be irate
for all that you’ve got going for you?
And what of more humble pursuits,
like the will to love, to carry on?
Well I can carry on if that would produce
any outcome than coming to abhor
the solace I wait with in pursuit
of the day you recognize me for the fruits
of labor that I bore just for you.
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The worst of weevils.
It is hard to believe we never see each other
often
enough for you to grow to hate me.
Maybe it is best to exist weeks apart.
Months apart.
Keeping your fascination
whilst I carve into your heart.
Like a weevil into tree bark;
a place for me to live.
A wound that never scars.
Left hollow and hurting long after the vacancy sign is hung.
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Bag of Laundry
With a bag of dirty clothes,
home from days away,
I piled them into the steel canister
and stopped at a familiar scent.
My grey pajama pants and V-neck tee
smell like your cologne.
They smell like “unforgettable” to me.
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upset. fret.
You are always upset.
With me.
You say so yourself—nothing but fret.
and yet you manage to find the time to torment me
with your verbose, stinging whit.
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better?
How could I have thought it was better
to put on my long grey coat and leave,
when rather I wish I was still lying in bed
head resting on your white shirt sleeve?
And left with nothing but the remains of a sleepless night,
unsung,
when woken not by the lark
but by the rising sun.
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flowers
Someone else’s kitchen is always a strange place to be alone.
Dripping faucets and cabinets that don’t shut.
Dirty pans in the sink reverberate with every step;
just balanced well enough not to topple for anything less than a bounce.
Orange peel plated on the table
and the never ending search for scissors—
junk drawer.
pen cup.
knife drawer.
Until a knife—a must less useful tool—substitutes.
And they’ll be trimmed badly but I think the flowers will live.
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a night of Manhattans
How could I not?
You were so comfortable.
A living space heater
beneath borrowed blankets.
I was starving,
worried my rumbling stomach would jar you from your coma.
Induced half by Manhattans
and half by the pokes and prods of my fingers
having kept you tossing all night.
Tossing and turning in circles
until you made a sleeping bag,
a cocoon; hoping that when you woke you wouldn’t be as grumpy.
But I watched,
terrified,
at how your deep consistent breathes
could cox me to sleep again.
Closed my eyes and fell into a daze;
this haze of a dream we slept in.
Wishing—no willing—myself not to leave.
The sun beckoned from the window and moved my feet.
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The musician
When asked about his girl:
She’s there,
amid the sea of faces;
blindingly beautiful
against the rest.
And like all the other strangers
I stand staring;
the only difference
is her returned glance.
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desperation
remind me again
why it is I yearn to try?
why it is I’d rather die than fail?
Or is it I’d rather die than try?
Could that be why
I never tried at all?
