I write
from my soul
words pour
through my fingers
caress the page
as a painter's
skilled brush
Familiarity
eagerness
gentle smooth strokes
embarrassed blush
as feelings touch paper
virgin spoilt by practice
A silent groan
un-mouthed declaration
deep impassioned cry
soundlessly uttered
I write
I write
for us
you would
but
I live your emotions
between these blue covers
dive into your mind
through my recycled canvas
command your conscience
apt to reign
over your understanding
my words worshipped
Pink nail polish
scratches the surface
of your human condition
I bare the world
I bare all
I write
And therefore
I am
Reborn with each new piece
a window to the heart
The writer a goddess
creator of your satirical realness
who frees you for a moment
explore your senses
and as it closes
she goes back to sleep.
She writes
You breathe
She stops
You cease
Rhythmic release
I write
Free
Friday 25 February 2011
Vent
Awaiting
Morning
Greeting
Your whites
We search
Find nothing
Not knowing
We hide
Tempted
Touching
Amazed by
Our cries
Slow creeping
Pressing
Lazily
We drive
The motor
The trembling
Vibrating
I climb
Slide downward
Still inching
Smothering
Your smile
Breaking
The craving
The rising
Subsides
The night
Now passing
We're living
We lie
Wednesday 23 February 2011
3 cinquains
Struggling
Up, Down
Climbing, getting higher
Descent into shadowy bliss
Addiction
Pain
Sharp, Isolated
Nervous spinal dance
The heart's gripping performance
I love you
Words
Thought crumbs
Lips playing games
From notes erupt choruses
Poems
Private International Law 10 AM Wednesday
1
I push the door open to the room full of students of varying talents, varying interests, varying reasons for being here. My feet take me to a seat somewhere at the back of the class. I put my empty bag down; the only book I need is already in my hand. I never leave it now. It is the pen I search for and as I do so I pull one leg up, on my chair towards me. It is how I sit when I am comfortable, how I sit when I write.
I am not a part of the class. They know where they are going and what they want to do when they get there. They are a body. I am the tumour. My presence slows them down. My fusion breaks them down. We cannot subsist. We are not whole.
"The intention required by the law is not present." Dr. Professor is enraged by a student's moronic answer. Hard lines from many nights of study flex in his face as he prepares his rant. We are not thinking, we are not working hard enough, back in his day they did not have computers. He paces his platform. He comes down from his platform. His rant continues. His words are emotive. They fall on my head, slide down my shoulders, my arms, to the ground. They splash. They wet the room. We are all affected differently. The pompous are disgusted. They would never have said something so silly. The indifferent are bored. They never heard the question. The avid are fired up. They have moved on to the next question. I am embarrassed by his ferocity. I no longer share his passion.
It was not like this last year, or last semester even. I hurried to classes with such purpose, such vision. I would change the world one case brief at a time. I was not parasitic. I came to classes prepared. I was not the weak link. I was the group leader.
It is the second day since it has happened. Dragging myself to class is losing its metaphoric configuration. The struggle is as real as sin and twice as hard to fight. I have been taken back to high school days: Reading until the wee hours of the morning rather than completing that Math assignment. King Lear, The Scarlet Letter, Harry Potter, The Great Gatsby, anything. Writing in classes, describing the teachers canine gait, spastic gestures, the wig with dandruff to the later amusement of my colleagues. Refusing to complete exams. New character ideas would envelop me and I would plunge into them while the invigilator called, "20 MINUTES REMAINING!" I could finish that Biology essay later, Damasa was about to set sail on her latest adventure.
When did I decide to do law?
2
It is 10 Wednesday morning. I have Private International Law.
He told me.
He told me when I was 15.
"You'll never be a writer," he said. "Writers don't make any money." That was the explanation. It's more explanation than Mr. Daddy ever gives.
"I'll cut you off," he says now.
Well, sure Mr. Dad, that's awfully creative.
Cut off the tumour.
So I won't write.
I'll takes notes. I'll take notes at Private International Law class while Dr. Professor splutters on about our thick skulls because that's what lawyers do. Lawyers take notes. So I push the door open to the classroom at 10am. I am going to take notes. I am going to be a lawyer. I am not going to write. Writers write. I am not a writer. I am a writer. I write.
I push the door open to the room full of students of varying talents, varying interests, varying reasons for being here. My feet take me to a seat somewhere at the back of the class. I put my empty bag down; the only book I need is already in my hand. I never leave it now. It is the pen I search for and as I do so I pull one leg up, on my chair towards me. It is how I sit when I am comfortable, how I sit when I write.
I am not a part of the class. They know where they are going and what they want to do when they get there. They are a body. I am the tumour. My presence slows them down. My fusion breaks them down. We cannot subsist. We are not whole.
"The intention required by the law is not present." Dr. Professor is enraged by a student's moronic answer. Hard lines from many nights of study flex in his face as he prepares his rant. We are not thinking, we are not working hard enough, back in his day they did not have computers. He paces his platform. He comes down from his platform. His rant continues. His words are emotive. They fall on my head, slide down my shoulders, my arms, to the ground. They splash. They wet the room. We are all affected differently. The pompous are disgusted. They would never have said something so silly. The indifferent are bored. They never heard the question. The avid are fired up. They have moved on to the next question. I am embarrassed by his ferocity. I no longer share his passion.
It was not like this last year, or last semester even. I hurried to classes with such purpose, such vision. I would change the world one case brief at a time. I was not parasitic. I came to classes prepared. I was not the weak link. I was the group leader.
It is the second day since it has happened. Dragging myself to class is losing its metaphoric configuration. The struggle is as real as sin and twice as hard to fight. I have been taken back to high school days: Reading until the wee hours of the morning rather than completing that Math assignment. King Lear, The Scarlet Letter, Harry Potter, The Great Gatsby, anything. Writing in classes, describing the teachers canine gait, spastic gestures, the wig with dandruff to the later amusement of my colleagues. Refusing to complete exams. New character ideas would envelop me and I would plunge into them while the invigilator called, "20 MINUTES REMAINING!" I could finish that Biology essay later, Damasa was about to set sail on her latest adventure.
When did I decide to do law?
2
It is 10 Wednesday morning. I have Private International Law.
He told me.
He told me when I was 15.
"You'll never be a writer," he said. "Writers don't make any money." That was the explanation. It's more explanation than Mr. Daddy ever gives.
"I'll cut you off," he says now.
Well, sure Mr. Dad, that's awfully creative.
Cut off the tumour.
So I won't write.
I'll takes notes. I'll take notes at Private International Law class while Dr. Professor splutters on about our thick skulls because that's what lawyers do. Lawyers take notes. So I push the door open to the classroom at 10am. I am going to take notes. I am going to be a lawyer. I am not going to write. Writers write. I am not a writer. I am a writer. I write.
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