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It's insecurity I think
What drives me to write.
I'm never so cool
Or fluid
As when I paint the world
With words on a canvas.

I can ask out a girl
In person
All six foot of me
And a girl
Can run
Call for help
Or look at her friend
In the way girls do
As if they were about to be raped.

All I said was hi.

Maybe it's my height
Maybe it's the knife in my hand
(Maybe it's my wry sense of humor)

Or maybe it's a sense of urgency
In knowing,
That single moment
Of life
Of feeling, want, hope, or drunk
Dances out, is coughed up
Regardless how I may intend it
It Is the only life I have to live.
And no matter how much vitality
Or sheer elegance I instill
In the most reverent of parchment
I still hide away from the incongruence of reality
With these scribbles.

Nothing compares to a good fuck.
That's not anything
I would ever say.

I know
Life
Is not always elegant
Takes time we don't have
And that this poem
May very well be killing
The truth behind my words.

But goddamn it all if I don't love the world
I tend to with my false imaginings.
I care deeply for them
More so than that bitch has ever cared
About spontaneity
She lives in her permanent fear
And I live as I choose in a world that isn't real.
I am what psychologists call crazy
Because I have drifted so far from so many points.
And branched my thoughts so fibrously.
(Really I'm reading the poem now midways through my third revision and it's like watching schizophrenia unfold before your eyes. There are so many emotions that have nothing to do with each other. It's hilarious and disturbing because I have no idea what's going on.)
And sometimes I am so detached that I can not separate
The real from the false.
But now is not one of those moments
(I wrote this line before I realized that now was one of those moments. lol)
And so long as I foresee the patterns of life
And preempt it with creative nonsense
No one will ever know the difference
Not even that stupid bitch
(I wrote this last part after realizing what all has happened)
Unless I write it down in a poem
And read it to myself at some later time
And watch as my words unravel
Into something almost pitiful

It's insecurity I thought
Wasn't it?
What happened to all my confidence
I should rename the poem
I've lost my focus
And this poem is changed
I've written myself in on another level
And don't even know any more
How to continue
The charade?





---- end ----

//Hey Lit.org I've missed you guys. It's been a really long while since I've last written or posted anything. I've always enjoyed sharing my stuff with the people on this network. I look forward to reading everyone's new stuff. See ya'll on the commentaries. Oh hey where does the conversations take place. Is there a forum or do people mostly message each other. Is there a facebook group or something?

Geez what a fucked up poem that was. Happy critiquing.


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Comments

The following comments are for "To Be Read, Slow And Fervent "
by FangChen

I think
I probably suffer from the same wry sense of humour as you do, and I guess that is why parts of this appeal so strongly to me. the “knife in my hand” line was stellar, and it is such conversational quips throughout the piece that sustain it and give it momentum, a kind of stand-up comedy soliloquy, with humour and self-depreciation as a talisman against navel-gazing (which a lot of introspective pieces can turn in to)…

there’s only one bit that didn’t ring true. the opening stanza with the painting metaphor nearly put me off. I feel I have heard such a comparison a million times before from so many different people that I am now frankly sick of hearing/ reading it. so strange as well to read such in a poem of otherwise striking originality…

and for the record, I don’t think you’re crazy. but your artful disorder is a pleasure to read. ;)

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: January 30, 2010 )





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