I Suck At Poetry
I was never a poet. I mean, one can probably argue that poetry, much like beauty is subjective and blah blah but really, I kind of have given up on writing poems. Primarily because I knew it wasn’t my forte and hence, I should but channel my energy on things I’m good at and secondarily, well, there’s no secondarily.
Just before I graduated from school, I attempted to have one of my poems published. The editor in chief of the anthology (or whatever writers call them) was a very good friend of mine, like a really really good friend but my knees shook and my hands perspired as I submitted my work.
“Read it to me.”, said my friend.
“WHAT? NOOOOO! I’m scared.”, I answered flamboyantly. I must’ve even flailed.
“Scared of what? C’mon, bitch. Do it.”
After I had read my piece, the said friend put her hand on my shoulder, sighed and explained that ‘it’s just a tad too dramatic.’
“Kring, I could pretty much imagine the persona with her long, red nails, posed as if she’s on the verge of fainting, awaiting a knight-in-shining-armor on a white horse to rescue her. Keep your poetry simple.”
And with that, she smiled, patted me on the back and showed me her freshly written Weiss Kreuz yaoi fanfics. True story.
What an intro. I basically just wanted to share that rejected poem with you (yes, even they get rejected lolz). And though I may have issues with unrequited love, I wasn’t the subject of this piece. You won’t even guess who I wrote it for.
The words you said have faded in the dusk,
have lost their meaning
like the fallen angels manning
Were you merely hiding behind fear
all this time?
Or has it finally dawned
that I am
the song that leads you to slumber
the autumn leaves that paint your dream crimson
the epilogue of an engraved masterpiece?
For the past six thousand two hundred and five days
I owned you.
My fingers drew feathery circles
on your iridescent skin
and my cheeks rested on your conceding lap,
which were but invisible and made-believe.
Without your knowledge,
against your will
I made you mine.
between the currents and the cosmos
you pulled me close
and slowly savored my lips,
devoured my soul,
robbed me of my senses.
Your tongue became one with mine
and our intimacy allowed me to taste your scent.
Once more, you have vandalized
my heaving graffiti wall
of unanswered questions.
I am more baffled than ever
but I await the moment
when you would strip my eyes
of the opaque mist that mask them,
perhaps let the truth redeem both of us.
for the next six thousand two hundred and five days
my fingers will create Rembrandts
on your iridescent yet invisible skin
and my cheeks will numb,
resting on your conceding
but make-believe lap.
It may cause my dawdling death
but to own you
in my little world of insanity
is all I know.
Kring Elenzano 122604
Inoeryt? Whattalulz. If you are going to tell me that my rhythm is wrong or that I should’ve used this word instead of another, don’t even bother. I have no plans of becoming the next Emily Dickinson anytime soon. Wait, she’s a poet, right?
Also, the said friend is Ms. Karen Capco who is a teacher now. She’s always been my idol though half the time her poetry brings nothing but confuzzlement to me and a giant sweat drop beside my head. Love you, bitch!
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