Real Horrorshow Groodies
(?)Community Member
- Posted: Tue, 09 Oct 2012 05:19:06 +0000
Here's a poem I've been working on. Lately, I've been dabbling in poetry slams, so I think I'm going to turn this into a spoken word piece. Let me know what you think!
When I was young
I once dreamt of my grandparents’ lake house.
But the sky grew dark over
my fond sensibilities.
The walls were consumed by some
great invasive
unknown.
Whatever you do!
Don’t touch it!
Whatever you do.
The grass grew tall before me.
The blades turned to face me.
Eyeless.
It sees me see them.
They crawled over dead cobbles.
I ran out into the land that betrayed me.
I had seen its eyes that are not eyes.
When I awoke,
I approached my sleeping mother,
thinking she was dead.
There are still nights
when I linger at the edge of sleep
and I hear a rush of water
beginning
to overtake me.
My brain works differently now
I’m seeking more perverse thrills.
Now I snap back
for only an instant before
lowering myself in.
When the water is
above my head.
I can wait to turn into something lighter,
and just
dissipate.
I’ve grown destructive.
I’m indoctrinated
into the abyss.
When I close my eyes,
I catch glimpses of the frightening
and distorted faces
that peek through the darkness.
Leaning forward.
Watching.
And on a good day,
when the lights are out
and the room is absent,
we can feel the tremors beneath the machinery.
So where rests the seed?
What corrupted us?
It wasn’t nature.
We are nature.
It wasn’t civilization.
We are the light.
It wasn’t barbarism.
We are the dark.
And it was not the great terraform of metal and concrete.
We are nature.
It wasn’t crime. It wasn’t law.
It wasn’t society. We are society.
It wasn’t disease
or death.
We are not who we are.
We’ve forgotten what it means to be human.
We never felt real life and each day we are thankful
that we never will.
But it goes on nonetheless.
And from the exhausted New
England to the manic West Coast,
the darkness is still just thinly covered
in shopping malls
and front lawns.
But somewhere
Somewhere stands the great In-Between,
where I can lean into the dust,
taste the blood,
hear the land deafen our cities,
and I feel the earth run all the way to its core.
Our time is a barrier
for those who hear the earthquake
and feel the bedrock open
and see the Earth’s own
beating heart
sink
into something more eternal.
After all,
within every intricacy beyond
all the poets, painters, and thinkers, we can
only claw weakly
at a greater image.
I reach forth,
hoping to lose a finger.
And so I keep my head beneath the surface,
waiting
for a million hands to reach up;
to grab the world by the ankle
and drag it down
until the skyscrapers run all the way to the core.
“Between”
When I was young
I once dreamt of my grandparents’ lake house.
But the sky grew dark over
my fond sensibilities.
The walls were consumed by some
great invasive
unknown.
Whatever you do!
Don’t touch it!
Whatever you do.
The grass grew tall before me.
The blades turned to face me.
Eyeless.
It sees me see them.
They crawled over dead cobbles.
I ran out into the land that betrayed me.
I had seen its eyes that are not eyes.
When I awoke,
I approached my sleeping mother,
thinking she was dead.
There are still nights
when I linger at the edge of sleep
and I hear a rush of water
beginning
to overtake me.
My brain works differently now
I’m seeking more perverse thrills.
Now I snap back
for only an instant before
lowering myself in.
When the water is
above my head.
I can wait to turn into something lighter,
and just
dissipate.
I’ve grown destructive.
I’m indoctrinated
into the abyss.
When I close my eyes,
I catch glimpses of the frightening
and distorted faces
that peek through the darkness.
Leaning forward.
Watching.
And on a good day,
when the lights are out
and the room is absent,
we can feel the tremors beneath the machinery.
So where rests the seed?
What corrupted us?
It wasn’t nature.
We are nature.
It wasn’t civilization.
We are the light.
It wasn’t barbarism.
We are the dark.
And it was not the great terraform of metal and concrete.
We are nature.
It wasn’t crime. It wasn’t law.
It wasn’t society. We are society.
It wasn’t disease
or death.
We are not who we are.
We’ve forgotten what it means to be human.
We never felt real life and each day we are thankful
that we never will.
But it goes on nonetheless.
And from the exhausted New
England to the manic West Coast,
the darkness is still just thinly covered
in shopping malls
and front lawns.
But somewhere
Somewhere stands the great In-Between,
where I can lean into the dust,
taste the blood,
hear the land deafen our cities,
and I feel the earth run all the way to its core.
Our time is a barrier
for those who hear the earthquake
and feel the bedrock open
and see the Earth’s own
beating heart
sink
into something more eternal.
After all,
within every intricacy beyond
all the poets, painters, and thinkers, we can
only claw weakly
at a greater image.
I reach forth,
hoping to lose a finger.
And so I keep my head beneath the surface,
waiting
for a million hands to reach up;
to grab the world by the ankle
and drag it down
until the skyscrapers run all the way to the core.