Just Like PoetryFirst frost, feet sore; I should know better than to wear slippersJust Like Poetry by DanielleWick
to work anymore and my lower back hollers assent...
But I can't resist getting away with something so ridiculous,
so comfortable, so easy, forgiving and relaxed... Well,
its the same way I get away with loving the two people I do.
First snow, feet cold; I should probably feel sheepish
for being so bold... but the parts of me grounded against reality
feel so accepted, so whole, dimensional and real.... well,
just like poetry, my love isn't anyone's business but my own
and it feels so right, the way my heart isn't hurting anymore.
SedimentThough I've always loved spirals, I had never thought beforeSediment by DanielleWick
the curve of ammonite would remind me of a woman --
the slow inner loop and all it's complicated compartments
bringing to mind your cheek, the ways in which you mince your damages
so that you might pack them away neatly, quietly; so deeply
they might as well be sediment.
When I was young and getting smaller by the day,
I dreamed of being a paleontologist:
the idea of sleeping giants and resting bones
convincing me there was a way to resurrect the dead.
Now, I know even less about which tool is gentlest,
how many lines a grid requires
or what the hot sun might feel like on the nape of my neck --
but I do know I am here, barefoot in the soil,
two tireless hands at the ends of two stubborn shoulders,
a long way from buried.
The dead dream sound and our power over the past is lost
as surely as vellum-thin membranes to the appetite of time --
it was never our ghosts that needed a warm touch in the night.
TonguesThinking about leaving, focused on feeling left behind,Tongues by DanielleWick
a girl with a chain at her throat and arrows for brains
falls out of my novice pencil tip:
eyes clenched shut, lips pressing tight,
she reminds me I don't need a gun anymore
to force myself into the night --
a hand is more than enough
when behaviors flood the brain
with an overdose of feelgood.
Each finger tip is a different bullet:
one for each half of this awful dissonance --
I could feel my whole body relax,
let my mind go like a dissatisfied balloon
but if I do that, my peace becomes a ticking clock,
each chemical tick taking me closer to sober.
How much I want the pipe anyway
is the first bullet, rampaging through.
The second is the shape of my husband --
sitting out in the garage, passing the minibong
to my best friend, only an hour after passing my words up
as I tried to fill him in on my day, my changes, my
intermittent struggle with whether I should smoke or not.
When he comes in, a cloud attached to feet,
I try to hide t
TowersWe were all young, making promises we didn't know how to keepTowers by DanielleWick
while a blonde hurricane thrashed through a lifetime of confusion and
battered us through the night, sparking a tidal wave
that crashed us all apart --
we were all drowning in our own way that year.
I know you've no reason to trust in me,
but in my own shadow of hopes raised and dashed, I finally believe
the storm has passed. I don't always remember
what the sunlight felt like all those years ago
but I know this new warmth as it spreads through my waterlogged heart.
I can't imagine the face you live behind now, have no idea
what shore you finally washed up on -- or if you've found land at all.
But I do remember the pillar inside of you, that dark tower of doubt,
because I stood atop mine and answered your smoke signals with my own.
Tears are still rare in my tower here, but there's a typewriter echoing,
answering each brand pushing past my eyes --
I know that nothing's fair, it isn't meant to be easy,
but I also know
"I would say any behavior that is not the status quo is interpreted as insanity, when, in fact, it might actually be enlightenment. Insanity is sort of in the eye of the beholder." - Chuck Palahniuk
Feels good to be writing again. <3