(Janice, I think you can pick out the allusions and tie them back to the title ;) )
Words,
I'm turning the faucet on.
Go out and make me someone.
I'm exhausted on alone,
police-dipped and
caramel-frisked,
crossbow in hand.
My lungs burn of Coleridge,
(Did you know,
if you burn "Kubla Kahn,"
the fire is
golden?)
and spark like a lit arrow.
I'm not allowed to stand,
based on my own decree.
When my legs give way,
I'll be free of complacency,
full of suffering,
and be worthy of writing.
Creativity,
my arms are in yours,
throw me in the air and
fly past.
Watch me plummet,
chuckling.
I can't wait to shoot you down,
you goddamn, sky-bound gem.
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2 comments:
okay--i'm not sure what allusions i'm supposed to get (craaap), though i've read this a number of times.
but i like:
'i'm not allowed to stand,
...
and be worthy of writing.'
that stanza seems like the core of this poem. have u been suffering from block, like i have? (and, you may have noticed, i've crapped out on TPS)
there are a few little things i would critique, but won't until i hear from u. with the hols this site has lagged, but i hope it picks up again.
not on TPS. where are u and everybody else? don't like my "crap on me" being at the top of the list!
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