Stuff

I was feeling partial to poems today...neither of them are good because combined they only took two minutes.

Inspired by the part of HP #6 when the inferi grabs Harry's hand.

Something wells and reels
inside, something claws stomach lining
The sensation of the floor falling from under feet.

The audible gasp,
the shake, shudder
the recovery.

The smile.
The welcomed warmness
after a chill
of fear.


Summer

A dirty shade of tan,
coupled with the crook of the arm, defying sun,
white as the lotion
mothers spread on children shoulders and cheeks.
Freckles spread over noses
the way ants spread over fruit.

Smell of chlorine on skin,
hair, self.
Warmth travels through skin as
sunglasses turn everything to sepia.



Sidenote: I am getting so goddamn sick of people making plans with me then breaking them.



Here's a poem I wrote for creative writing a couple semesters ago. It's title "The Manhattan Project." Something on HBO today made me think of it for some reason.

That painting,
"The Scream"
it's real
I've seen it,
in pictures of war.

Dry mouths, untied
grasped by
gaping, arid lips
elongating the face
pinching the eyes
moving the eyebrows closer together
with an invisible hand,
Distortion.

You can't even see teeth, as though they're pulled back into retreat,
like the face forgets it has a jaw
and a shape.

A boy turned into an ash
mummy, forever grabbing his throat
willing his mouth to make a misshapen "O"

The black of the O isn't black, but dark.
Like someone shut the lights off in a long hall
of a building you know very well.



Ughh. Now to pick my brother up from soccer and try to convince my mom to get Greek food for supper.