Wednesday, September 26, 2012

digression (Salinger and Sylvia Plath)

slightly edited. a sort of mash-up of Holden Caulfield and Esther Greenwood. strange? probably, if you haven't read The Catcher in the Rye or The Bell Jar.  what i guess i'm saying is you should read them. my writing is mostly just average, but those books are stellar. 

thoughts formed in my mind
like a weight on my back bending and bowing
my spine rolling my shoulder blades,
roller skates, vision black.
moving away, clearing my mind
racing, erasing,
empty, i see the bottom of my glass
not full, not even half.
i tilt it up, how many circular windows had i seen?
distorted faces. records broken, it was important
to feel pure, fill up on clear cold liquid
lucid. lurid. coughing up ash,
everything begins to sink away
fade, into a dull gray frame
though with none of the memory,
the novelty, of a photograph silver lining.
you follow me?
its like everything is flat
and falls away, blows away with a slight breeze
like ripped up pages of a magazine.

and anyway all i know is that I am
i mean, maybe its like swimming until you're too tired,
just repeat and repeat like the slap
of ocean waves.
then i suppose you breathe a breath, you drown.
i think life is like that.
except when i try and stop, to sink
i can never disappear
because each time i slip under
my sigh of sleep is a sear of salt.
the problem is, I float.

i suppose my life is more like a frozen winter fish pond
no one really gives a thought on me,
suspended above the sea floor,
and those who do have no answers as to how i'm still
and i hate them in that moment,
i really do.
all fake, shams, pretty to look at
with no brains.
every thought like smoke, insubstantial,

i once heard that some people fall
and never even know they've hit the bottom.

Does it ever seem the only thing thats golden is whatever,
whoever you're holding
and if you could just reach that something better
that coloured light from a prism
you'd be perfectly free?
only trouble is its night and you can't see
because all it really is
is reflection.
and nothings tangible, except maybe
in that moment, when it is.
when its caught in a jar, or your eye

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