Intrepid Girl Reporter


Sunday, 11/1: you don’t feel that you could love me but I feel you could
November 1, 2009, 4:44 pm
Filed under: poetry

Things with the IGRB are over, at least for the time being. Everyone involved possesses hopes of being friends, maintaining the relationship so carefully developed over months, and the reasons behind all of this, the who did and said what and when, are irrelevant, at least to you. For the most part, fault isn’t the issue. Of more concern, I think, is the pain we fear we are causing each other.

For my purposes, what I’m concerned about, after dealing with the levels and facets of feeling, is my urge to speak in other peoples’ words; this happens a lot, when I’m feeling hurt, because I lack the confidence that my own language is sufficient to express what I feel, and so after the hours of sleep – which is what people who deal with depression do – I find myself overcome with the urge to tattoo these poems, these song lyrics (song lyrics! am I sixteen?!), these passages over everything: on paper, on my skin, on my walls, in an effort to divest myself of some small segment of what hurts inside. To repeat them, over and over, like some sort of shallow, pop-culture mantra, until the pain is gone.

Even if you have heard these before. And you have.

Compulsively Allergic to the Truth
by Jeffrey McDaniel
I'm sorry I was late.
I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I'm sorry I was late.
I was on my way
when I felt a plot
thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth
is on the second floor
of the universe.
I am not the egg man.
I am the owl
who just witnessed
another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your father
shaking his head
at the thought of you.
I am his words dissolving
in your mind like footprints
in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives
to the bull inside you.
I am decorating
your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots
of all the people
who've gotten lost
in your corridors.

 

First went wrong is hard to find
We’re paralyzed, we apologize
Our hell is a good life
Last went wrong, where’s my prize under the lights
Can we call it in?
We’ll be on the road
Can we stop?
When we stop my back will turn your face toward the fence
What I thought it was it isn’t now
All this weight, is honest worse
We’re moderate, we modernize
till our hell is a good life
All we know what to forget, how to do right
Coloring in the black hole
Can’t we stop? when we stop
My hands will shake, my eyes will burn
My throat will ache, watching you turn
From me toward your friends
What I thought it was it isn’t now
What I thought it was it isn’t
Punishment to stall what is done
What I thought was in is missing out
What I thought it was it isn’t now
There’s a pattern in the system
There’s a bullet in the gun
That’s why I tried to save you
But it can’t be done

 

 

 

I am the owl who just witnessed another tree fall over in the forest of your life.

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