This weekend I am supposed to write a poem.
A single. Poem.
I just wrote it.
“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN
That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.
I’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.
Something like that.
I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.
Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.
Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.
I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.
I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.
There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.
Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.
Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.
And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago, I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.
He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.
You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.
I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.
Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.
I turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.
I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.
Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:
And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.
I’ll write a poem about that.