Cliché
a behind-the-scenes poem
It sounds like I’m only rephrasing
pop lyrics, and things we all know
(because most of the time, I am)
how much will I mention the moon
sing, I can see the rabbit’s teeth
the indents make me feel calm, but
I miss that its shine is not just mine.
I break away from half a life
(I meant to write half a line)
to browse bookmarked photographs
so they’ll spark friction on my calves
and I’ll tear a metaphor from flashes
softly turning off in my head.
I say I feel blue, but the world
remains painted in grey(ish) clouds
and I don’t ever want anyone
to unveil the muggy mystery
behind faking it to the golden level
is (really) believing it yourself.
I make a soundtrack for everything
I write (and do, or don’t do)
sometimes it’s a quick playlist
worn of dragging a loop with cursors
and I swear it’s to help reduce
the volume and rate of half-thoughts
but what if all I pan is borrow
copy + paste modern marrow
edit it cryptic, only to be very myself
in the penultimate paragraph.
I want to scream I’ve never been liked
for who I am (just to land the line)
but that would be (sort of) untrue
because I’m addicted to shedding
for my benefit, to keep growing pieces
scientists would have to pin labels
and is it really poetry if everything
doesn’t hurt and includes runny blood.
I fold heartfelt responses to trace
later, crossing it boosts the threshold
but all it does is make me wonder
if others know about the ones I finish,
scratch, smoothen, and save
to remember what not to do
then hate, and they mirror it back
for never being allowed to be free.
Author’s Notes:
My April has sucked so far, and I don’t have hope for the rest. There’s no need for concern, I’m okay. Or more honestly, I will be okay.
I’ve been blocked, and somewhere between mad and sad (insert leaps of logic here), my drafts are being set free. I still edit them heavily, almost to the point of rewriting, but it’s been easier not to face the violence of the blank page.
Nevertheless, this poem was surprisingly delightful to put together. And I got to listen to The Neighborhood nonstop, so that was a cool perk.
Only a great writer would understand the violence of a blank page.
The violence of a blank page. Ugh. I understand that on such a soul level. And I’ll do everything in my power to avoid it, knowing the terror that flashing cursor will cause.