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when i'm not trying to look too hard
for anything, when i'm not scraping away at
another dead layer of skin that has collected on reality,
i see quiet little bits of myself in you. i see that
way your stomach spills over the waist
of your jeans when you lay on your side,
the belly whispering that you breathe, you laugh,
you eat. not for a moment do i stop loving you
and for a moment i start loving
the way this belly folds and piles.
sometimes your lips are a bit too chapped
and when you talk, i can see them pull taut
and peel. if i remember to, i'll remind you
to fish out that chapstick in the back of your dresser,
but mostly i'm remembering all the times
i've seen you smile at something i've said.
i'm no comedic genius but i guess
i might just be a funny friend.
your hair is a juxtaposition of frizzy and greasy
tonight, and you should probably shower,
but it makes me think of how movies mimic the real thing
by carefully arranging hair so it looks windblown;
and how poetic is that. until you wash it all away,
for a bit, there is poetry in your hair.
you finish telling your story of grocery store adventures,
teetering on the edge of a voice crack.
your vocal cords, i think, are throwing a piece of pottery,
sometimes bubbling or slumping over into silence
but always turning over a thought. i wonder if i
shouldn't hate my voice, either,
if it's just a small clay bowl.
and so what if it has some cracks.
Hi Seirre! Hope you’re doing fantabulously! Lim here with a short review.
First Impressions
The tone of the poem overall seems observational to me. It creates this sort of sympathetic and appreciative perspective of the human ‘reality’, perhaps contrary to a fiction that comes about via “trying to look too hard”.
the way this belly folds and piles.
but it makes me think of how movies mimic the real thing
by carefully arranging hair so it looks windblown;
and how poetic is that. until you wash it all away,
for a bit, there is poetry in your hair.
i wonder if i
shouldn't hate my voice, either,
if it's just a small clay bowl.
i see that
way your stomach spills over the waist
of your jeans when you lay on your side,
the belly whispering that you breathe, you laugh,
Movies and books are beautiful,but beautiful doesn’t equal perfection.The stuff fed to us is amazing but fake.It brings us joy but it suffocates us.In the end we are enough.We are just.We are literally so freaking beautiful and awesome.No one not one damned soul can change that.Great poem.Loved it.I hope that you will have a fulfilling and lovely day and night.
Remind me to review this
I love this, Seirre! It feels so earthy and human, really beautiful in all the rough edges in a person-- I like how your line breaks mimic that
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