Shit Happens

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Suspicion

I might just cut & paste all day. Collected work of Melissa Marie slapped into a semi-coherent blog.

Suspicion

I want to write
a poem that's neither
bitter, nor saturated
in pain, so I consider physical things .

visual art (the modern kind - made
to stretch creative thought - or mere
confusion), long handed words
written in labored script, the familiar feel
of worn denim along the pads
of my fingertips, the suspicious marks,
peeking from under my shirt sleeve when I raise
my hands, manicured nails scratching between
thick hairs to a soft scalp, the taste
of smoke displacing oxygen to fill my lungs, after
particularly fulfilling casual sex, the shock
of cold water, the ice bumping against my teeth, leaving
a puddle upon my upper lip.

An addiction to words, and aversion
to activity has holed my logic. I turn
inward, craving non-tangible things-

Acceptance. The small space between
a relatively naive adolescence and my adult self. Self-
respect. My morals- disturbingly similar to
the conservative dogma taught in my youth, before
I could discern between right
and wrong, how I've fought to create
my own.

Love thy neighbor; treat him as you would like to be treated.

Ethical boundaries - often blurred
in selfish want and indulgent loss of control,
consuming thoughts causing mental angst,
my over-priced, private education, my small
retention, the materialistic "needs"
I gained during those years, how it "could have been", my obsessive
(fear) of change.

I don't want any of these things back -
my virginity, a nearly flat stomach, unstretched
skin, the optimism of inexperience, and
the words left unsaid.

Now squares are coming up after I paste instead of some of the charecters I used in word. Hmmm...

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