My first attempt to write 30 poems in 30 days. Let's hope I can find the time and ability to do this.
*prepares for action*
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
The parade is now in full swing today, as the citizens of New New New New Washington D.C. - the world capital of planet X-0R72 - celebrate the election of the 35,027th President of the Alienated States of America, Bob R. Zzyzzx. Elected by the overwhelming electoral vote of 6,031-4 (with the remanining four going to Pat Buchanan's spirit on the former Earth; may his dust particles drifting through space rest in peace), he promises to improve upon his popular vote of 10.2% and warm the hearts of the half of the population who utterly despise him by first granting rolled-up fishes in newspapers to all of the impoverished citizens. A fishy plan, note the journalists in attendance, but the food is actually quite decent, assuming you like tofu.
Regardless, he has arrived at the Gray House (which used to white before the rocket landed on our last president), and looks stunning in his clean outfit, made of pure xorfg fur, available at your local supermarket for the adequate price of $10,000 a pound. His inaugural address is set in an half-hour, and everyone is eagerly anticipating to see if he will live through it. And what about the weather, Dan?
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Harmony is a street stricken with traffic today. Cars from end to end blare their horns to the tune to an invisible beat that long also lost all sense of rhyme, meter, and clarity, but never forgot its rhythm. Swearing adds a touch of dissonance, keeping the pace from becoming stale, and the striking of careless drivers distracted by the little black boxes in their hands against suicidal barriers tired of the rat race and being casual observers to madness is the tapping of drumsticks against drums.
Or so I contemplate while listening to smooth R&B and looking around the window, seeing cars lined row after row for a reason involving nobody but themselves, and likely not even themselves either.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
My brother takes a look at the sky, dotted with rows of eerily similar clouds. He explains to me, nonchalantly, "I think God photoshopped the clouds."
These explanations are unique, the product of a brain being rattled around, as it is unwillingly led over hills and jumps on a bicycle worn with age, but not worn in spirit.
"Ah," I reply; "So He activated His creation program, clicked on "create cloud," and then "copy," "paste," "copy," "paste," yes?"
He only started from 5 gates on the BMX track; I started from all 8.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
the universal ember, apples, tounges, blood, muscles, guts, warm bodies, love in the air, blushing, slap in the face, broken skin, the feeling of rage, fire, fire tornadoes, fire fighters, fire hydrants, firetrucks, stop signs, stop lights, crashed cars, low batteries, failure.
Moist eyes.
I'm sorry, but the caller is unavaliable. Would you like to try again?
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 5th, Day 5 of 30 (Written Around 7:50 AM on April 4th)
Death by Petals
I see flowers in petals. Memories and emotions of different colors stitched together to form a picture of a face. Raging, crying, smiling, images of first impressions on the surface to satisfy black-and-white moralities. But, if one looks beyond the petal's front, they will see children playing in fields, teenagers sitting on the roofs of cars and listening to tunes they forgot the words to, though they never lost the beat. Adults sitting in offices, scanning over papers, fighting in a stifling environment composed of people who all speak different languages, and screaming is not the universal one. (Neither is smiling).
Or, sometimes, exasperated children cramming information into their minds in preparation of yet another challenging test; teenagers smoking cigarettes and speaking the language of love in hope of finding a partner to relieve and treasure life with; adults, free, pursuing their passion as they scour the earth in search of new fossils, new discoveries by which to make their names, and cement their legacies into history.
Each petal in a flower has a flower in a petal, where colors blend together to form an impression that masks the flower and highlights the petal. And the petal, when viewed, covers the flower within, which vainly struggles to gain freedom. It knows that the death is the beginning of its end, and the end of the impression's beginning.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 6th, Day 6 of 30 (Written Around 9:11 AM on April 5th)
Crossed
I waltz to the tune of broken memories shattered on the floor at my feet. Discordant notes echo from pianos as I pluck the torn strings of a guitar and hope for the music to align, a perfect melody in discordance, to pull me away from the ground I used to call home.
(But I'm growing tired of calloused feet skewered and reddened by shards that call out into the depths of my mind in a language I don't understand. Messages of morse code interspersed in waves of pain, calling "Orpheus, Orpheus, will you play us lyres, call Eurynome from Hades, and embrace her again. Life is not meant living if all that greets you in the morning is the eternal silence of instruments you destroyed with your hands in agony.")
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 7th, Day 7 of 30 (Written Around 7:33 PM on April 5th)
a pull away from the universe
The morning from out my window comes in search of my eyes to smother them, bury them in a misty avalanche of freedom from thought and mind and soul. emotions are its playthings, its jokes, toys to chase, capture, and eat like a bare-bones cat waiting for another meal that will never come. it seeks sight to crush under its feet, build a blissful ignorance that seeps from the pores throughout its body and over its victims, filling their heads with evening daydreams that they can sleep again, come to bed and forget the world.
That the lights will turn on when the time comes, and an assault can enter the mind composed of realizations, forgotten deadlines, missed moments, charms and wonders, souls to be twisted into knots and tied together into beads displayed on the windows of shop doors. And there they can change pattern every day, weaving colorful rugs and mats, too fragile to be sold; standing upon them leaves broken threads and memories you can hold in your hand for the few seconds before they fade into dust and fly away.
Until then, it notes with an eternal calmness, you can drift above the pillow in blankets wrapped softly around your frail embrace and dream of the way that stardust tastes when it lands on your mouth, complete with nostalgia of a time you don't even remember but drifts at the edge of your mind, inviting you to chase it through the streets and over the ocean. A misstep will sweep you off of your feet, and you like Icarus will drown in the sea while the memory carries itself beyond to groves where silent and tranquil forest animals dance to ethereal music and chide softly your sinking body, and the dead wood of trees shakes your name over hills that long forgot how to breathe, much less think.
Yet my mind is stuck in the afternoon today, and cat's eyes glow green out of the dim brightness, deciding that the time isn't later but it is now. Inevitably, the lights must turn on, and a surprise unwanted with a dream unchased is worse than the world's armies bearing down upon my head, here to remind me that the world is full of groves I can visit, oceans I can cross, people I can become. I am but a speck on a speck revolving around a speck in a speck made of specks surrounded by specks, more than I can possibly imagine. And I prefer it that way.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 8th, Day 8 of 30 (Written Around 6:48 PM on April 6th)
Ironically
Spoiler! :
Yesterday was the day I hung my wings against the doorframe whose hinges were broken from having been thrust open too many times.
They were torn and worn, wax melted from the edges by dreams of the sun poised overhead, and how it could be reached by step after step, climbing clouds and passing through souls, an arrow of light undaunted by mortal constraints to become more than the sum of its parts.
Today was the day I sat on a couch and questioned why I was still alive.
An arrow of light was not meant to shoot in the back every person in its way and taint their hearts with sorrows, causing harm it had never hoped to do by dancing over rules and laws it had never known. And only hindsight, a clear past view, is 20/20.
And how had I not already fallen from clouds where every step brings voices that tell me I am following the wrong path, my lack of faith and the idea of humanity's divine origin has made me immoral, weak, wrong, flawed. That because I have decided I want to choose my own destiny, have faith in myself, I am making a journey without morals where anything goes, as nothing lasts forever.
Yesterday is a day I don't want to forget. Today is a day I don't want to remember. Tomorrow I don't want to get up in the morning, and I'm not sure if I will ever want to again.
Last edited by TheSilverFox on Fri Apr 08, 2016 6:50 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Reason:Hidden because I find it embarrassing
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 9th, Day 9 of 30 (Written Around 8:40 PM on April 7th)
[typically used to express the topic of a poem in an either blunt or witty fashion]
The [usage of vocal chords to produce coherent notes][avian creatures] are here [a period of time usually designated as "the present night"], And I don't [ponder the significance of something] why, because [understandable; based on sound logic] sense is hard to come by when [combination of self-reference and appeal to audience] are [intoxicated] by [processed images and words produced by the brain] of daisies planted upon the [component of a room above your head], and why they [bend in a particular fashion] upwards to a [glowing, warm object poised in the sky during "daytime"] that doesn't [appear in physical form within the world.
And do I?]
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 10th, Day 10 of 30 (Written Around 8:13 PM on April 8th)
Many Old and Foolish People
When the sun begins to rise in the sky, and the rooster beeps frenetically to a new dawn, time is spent best contemplating the fact that your ancestors made their livings killing one another.
In complicated political games where the rules are conquer or be conquered, death is a greater lord than all of the others. Ruling over his dominion with an iron fist, a lord ponders his next strategy, swords pointing down upon him from a rebellious teenage son and his army.
Swiftly ending what had lasted for so long, Vikings arrived upon shores to settle, build villages, farms, livelihoods; plundering is for those looking for an adventure above and beyond exploring the world and realizing that you can become a facet within it. Such purposes in life seem to be especially reserved by daughters whose fathers bind them to kings, in the hopes of creating a dynasty to vanquish all others.
And they've managed to claim one victim today, in the form of a confused child pondering his history and realizing the follies of many old and foolish people who sought glory, and found themselves claimed by a reaper instead.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 11th, Day 11 of 30 (Written Around 9:55 PM on April 9th)
Spoiler! :
Of The Beginnings of Endings and the Endings of Beginnings
I've found that mornings are easier to write about than evenings.
Even the best of dusks can be Pyrrhic endings, flashing failures and successes on beams of light that sting your already exhausted eyes, which desperately seek a fire to fight this new one. (even if your fire is a fire extinguisher.)
Fading light can be a bitter lemon trapped in the mouth blocked by a tongue pleading for it not to travel further, assisted by tears made from what could have been done better, or what could have been done at all.
Not to say evening is solely frosty. It can be a soothing voice reminding you of the disparity between the worst and what you have. The calming sensation that sends you to bed and kisses you with the smells of comfort that imply "everything will be better by dawn," - "don't worry anymore, just sleep."
But morning is hope, and evening is the blunt truth; few things are harder to speak of than the truth.
(enspoilered because I dread this poem. I could've written the poem earlier - and much better, might I add - without feeling the urge to rush, but I delayed and delayed. And then I found myself writing at 10 night, when my brothers were falling asleep and I knew I had to as well. I know that the goal of NaPo is to write 30 poems in a month, but I want to try to least write one a day. Which is what led to that late-night frantic session involving an addled mind and a lack of time. I apologize for this.)
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 12th, Day 12 of 30 (Written Around 7:26 PM on April 10th)
Blind Mammals and Monopoly Boards
If I were to tell you these tears are out of bitterness, you wouldn't believe me; a mind that has bleached itself white and placed a tarp over its head is as blind as a bat staring against the scar-marked walls of reason and pondering what is stopping it from flying through.
These panic attacks were made by your name, on your hill, over the statue that you carved with your own hands. Who else could be so proud of the dents, marks, scrapes, and bruises that a child carved with instruments he didn't know how to use in handwriting that is a desperate forgery of his parents work, neglectful of the fact that the statue had to be maintained, developed, grow into a work of art unique. A piece unlike any others of its kind, one that could finally become live, break free from its restraints and carry you into the sky, and crown your reputation alongside those of many other men who worked to change the world for the better.
Let life is still a game to you, except there is no jail space, you've always owned Boardwalk and Park Place, and I step through your hotels swept by the fear of becoming bankrupt.
It's too bad that I already am.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 13th, Day 13 of 30 (Written Around 8:40 PM on April 11th)
in sickness and in worse
No health class is complete without the picture of a disease lung (just as no Biology class is complete without the equally picturescant scene of a dissected frog on a table next to a worksheet identifying all of those squishy bits you refused to poke at with your scalpel).
And the only kid who dares to laugh is the one in the background where you can smell the smoke coming out of his ears. Frankly, out of every pore in his entire body, especially ones nobody here would rather mention (we believe it's a fetish).
Given a picture of a normal lung, my only conclusion was that the other had been smoked horribly on a grill. A cruel prank hosted by cannibalists spewing out the values of education to bore us into submission.
But when life gives you pollen, make expired allergy medication out of them. It keeps your eyes from burning and your throat from crying, though it won't stop your sneezing, I'm afraid.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
April 14th, Day 14 of 30 (Written Around 9:30 PM on April 12th)
Excessive Use of Crying
It was this morning that I found I hated the word and so threw it out a car window. It went alongside formerly bloated sacs of dreams abandoned in favor of more practical tasks like reading the newspaper and nervous breakdowns from the latest drama on a TV opera.
Mourning is an unfortunate last name, the product of a misplaced letter to remind you of funerals or spilled milk over a PB&J, or so I believe. What man could say they cry?
I once told a man ignoring the pigeons cooing at his feet for a bite of his meatball sub was racist. And he stopped and stared at me to see just who would break first.
He did.
Posters of school plays are negligent of a dozen students stumbling over lines and shouting confused lyrics and nonsense verse at teachers who give them points for being realistic.
Debates about clones best come alongside articles on stupid ways to die and no self-censor nor sense of decency to stop from questioning one's self and making them fall upon their rusted spork in disgust.
Or so it was this morning, before I found that I hated the word.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
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