Well, when put that way, it sort of sounds like I USED to write really crappy poetry but now I write AWESOME poetry!
It means I used to attempt to write some kind of weird poetry and it was shitty and it sucked and now I don't do that anymore, much to the relief of everyone who accidentally read it when they came here to see what was new.
I'll never be a poet nor an author nor even much of A Writer, because I'm not good at evoking feelings. I'm terrible at adjectiving (and I like to make up words even though when other people verb their nouns, I get super annoyed because #hypocrite), and I find writing dialogue to be tedious and I get bored of it after like...a half a conversation.
I mostly go for the short and sweet little punch of sarcastic humor...sometimes it works, sometimes it falls flat, and
Some person in Norway was in my archives on this page of forgotten "poetry"... it doesn't even really qualify as poetry I don't think.
It's just a collection of random things I wrote on a napkin when one of the kids was in the hospital for a couple weeks with something or other (RSV most likely)...outside at 2am in the freezing cold, walking around the courtyard to stay warm, chain-smoking cigarettes and trying to hide in the dark to think...or to NOT think. Anxious to get back in to check on a kid, trying to remember when the next breathing treatment was due, hoping That One Nurse was NOT on duty tonight because UGH SNOTFACE...and at the same time dreading the return to the silent room with just the hissing of the oxygen and the beeping of the alarms when a sticky lead came loose or the saline bag needed to be changed, with softly creaking nurses shoes and murmured voices outside the door, alarms blaring from other rooms every now and again.
The scent of despair and fear and helplessness.
Yeah, this still sucks as much as it did so many years ago when I wrote it, but it did make me remember those feelings, so I guess it wasn't a total fail.
Past The Door
Strangers passing by
Into another's face
Bound together by fear,
loneliness, anger, resentment
Except to ask for a light
Smoking in silence
Each cigarette a tiny beacon
in the dark of night
Smoke obscuring expression
Alone with churning thoughts
in a group of many
Worry etched on each face
Helplessness in each eye
Afraid of what tomorrow might bring
Silent anonymity is a cloak
Protection from the unknown.