Well now, let me preface this poem with a caveat - I was not in the least suicidal when I wrote this. In fact, the genesis of this poem was a classic example, for me, of the inspiration of my muse (though what muse would inspire such poetry, I do not know in the slightest). I was sitting by my bedroom window, trying to think of a good opening line (for I often find that it is easy to build a good poem from a good first line, whereas a poor opening will send one nowhere but down) when this poem came to me, in toto, and I merely wrote it down. Needless to say, I was a little shocked at the morbidity of it all, yet at the same time, I was quite taken with the alliteration and imagery. This is one case where I feel almost that I had no part in the creation of this poem, though on some level, of course, I must have formed it. Disturbing, but perhaps just a little cool.
Restless Thoughts
Bitter, bitter pill of white,
send me out into the night.
Close my eyes and stay my dreams.
Stop my ears to earthly screams.
Sure as silver, quick and deep,
lay me out in silent sleep,
without tremor, without breath.
As I were, and unto death.
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2 comments:
isn't it funny how poems just come like that? Some of my best poems have arrived on their own, completed before I even write it down. It feels a bit like there's someone else out there dictating.
So true, in fact, I find that the more I try to think about poetry while writing, the less sincere it becomes. If an idea is truly inspired, it will write itself.
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