I’m working on a new piece – I know it’s been forever since I posted on here, sorry. I’ve done quite a bit of writing, but here is the first little bit of my first draft.
I’m a spinning wheel
stuck in the earth
by the road side
spinning in the same space
making no gain.
I’m scratching to the
bottom of my nails.
I’m getting chipped and cracked
until there’s nothing left
for me to even save
I want to be a slam poet
I want to expose my naked outrage and despair
to tear chunks of bone and paper
out of society with
my teeth and tongue. I want to squeeze you
with wit and irony
until you are wheezing
no air in your lungs.
I want to slam your brain up against the wall
in a bar fight
about something real. Shock your system
but not too much. I want you to think
too hard about my whispers.
I want to be a slam poet and bare the world to you
bare as my soul. I want to show the news shaved,
with innuendo peeled back, economic perspective torn away.
I want to be a slam poet.
First draft by Kiara
Her soul is the vacuum of space. Her eyes are as blue as the blue you get when you set your computer to choose only web safe colours and then choose blue. The smell wrapped around you like a rose garden. Her laugh was like wind chimes. Her skin was warm and soft as silk. She tasted like salt and sweet memories.
Mullum was where I first saw Annie. She was brand new and full of life. It was cold that day. Her nips stuck out from her t-shirt. The music started, and I tripped over the sound and fell at her feet.
“Are you okay?”
I blushed. “I just tripped. Sorry.” She lifted me to my feet with her eyes.
“Ki’s an idiot. Sorry. Hi.” I gestured to my chest. Up from the grass, I wore liquid clothes.
“Well, hola, me amor. Que tal?” Her scarfed slithered from her hands around my shoulders, bringing her arm with it. It made me warm again.
I have a decision to make. It’s not a big decision, but it kind of is. I don’t usually put these kind of posts on here, but I think that this time it is appropriate.
As you may know (or not, that’s cool) I am currently studying creative writing, and we are doing a unit on poetry at the moment. We have a spot at a poetry reading on Thursday, and I have to choose three poems that I have written to read at it.
I have written so many poems lately, because we’re doing it in class, and I feel like the more poems I write, the more I hate everything I write. It’s making it so hard to choose something. I don’t even know where to start. So many of my poems are designed to be seen only on a page, and not to be read aloud. And the other ones.
Aaah! I’m kind of freaking out. I have read my work out loud to my class members, and I had a play I wrote read out by some acting students last term, but other than those occurrences, this is the first time that I’ll be reading my own work in public. It is so much more nerve raking than I would have thought, and I don’t even know what I want to read yet.
If anything at all.
If anyone has any advice for me, I absolutely 100% would love to hear it, post a comment down below, or if you have thoughts on what I have written (that would probably just be my classmates, other than the latest two, all the poems on here are really old) I’d love to hear it.
Other than that, I promise to actually post something decent on here soon.
Your sweet elixir is heaven’s dew
the taste rich and brilliant,
You wake the masses.
People live on you,
depend on your reliable
release of energy
to get through their days.
You are the reason for reunions,
a mid-day social lubricant.
You don’t discriminate –
the lactose intolerant have you black,
the jittery take you decaf
and stay at home mums take you
cheap and freeze dried.
You are the motivation of a generation
or five thousand
providing protection from Parkinson’s
and liver cancers,
despite complaints of constipation.
You touch the hearts and hands of many
not just western adults,
but children in developing countries
working to the bone in the hopes of a dollar
for the sake of your tar-ish brew.
The cups in landfills are a small price to pay for
your boost and bitterness.
You can act as the worst of needy relationships,
people needing your call in the morning,
then again and again throughout the years
their addiction to you never wavering,
as you sap their bank accounts like a
phone sex hotline.
But you make them feel so good.
The argument stands.
We broke up a little while ago.
I miss you,
but kissing your beautiful lips made me sick
to my stomach
although you managed to keep me in bed
I miss you on my tongue
although you never quite managed
to wake me as you did others.
I see you with them
with the others you see
and I wish you would go away
but you won’t.
I won’t fight the knowledge that I know
you’ll get me back
For the mean time, it’s time to
brighten the day
of the rest of the world.
The flakes find demise on my naked flesh
cold ice, but boiling hot,
a warm hug all at the same time.
A slight chill
in the tops of the air
joining the tickling fingertips.
The chill numbs
and makes me feel, but
makes me feel numb.
You dance around me
with the falling flakes
your laugh is soft and distantly —
now right beside my ear
And you join me again,
bring me back to the warm
to substantial feeling.
Then we’re back in bed again.