Poetry Journal!! Part 2!! (Again....?)

[knifey offline]

For an English assignment, we had to take a picture, and then make a poem to "bridge the gap" between what the photographer and the viewer knows about the photograph.

This is one of my photos I turned in to my teacher:
whert
"Beds give them comfort
Hard plastic chairs lack comfort
All she has are chairs"

If this is against the rules of the thread, please inform me, and I will erase the post as much as I can.

[Stonecreek]

I have multiple poems to comment on/critique. Hooray!

Carth:
1 - In first stanza, I might divide the long line into two. Otherwise, nice painting of a scene. I didn't tackle Petrarch until college. The rest of the poem is earnest yet playful. of course, it's a writer talking about writing, which gets old quick, but it's still a fun read.
2 - The overall message of this poem is better than the first. A nitpicky thing - you don't need to capitalize every line. Speaking of lines, I like "I’m creative four times over."
4 - A bit vague in places, which in this case is not so good. "certain words" should be something more definite. Also, the last line of this stanza could stand some more detail. Again, a couple of totally "you" lines - the shemale one and the first three lines of the last stanza.

BillyGirl
Second line should be divided to keep the poem's form intact, and the same with line eight. they sound fine, but look awkward. Also, don't feel so pressured to follow such a rhyme pattern. AABB, while alluring when read aloud, can also sound cheesy and overdone, and this poem is verging on that. I'd love to see this rewritten in an unrhyming version to see how much more you can say.

Lemiar
Remember to comment on other's poems. You don't have to go to my level (noone else does), but at least a couple of words of acknowledgement would be nice. This thread is here to get poems in the open and for them to be tweaked. As for your poem, I have always liked haikus, especially when they stray away from nature themes, The form (5-7-5) is a lie (like the cake); it only sounds right in Japanese. Modern haiku tends to be like 3-5-3, whith the last line being a dramatic turn from the first two, That said, your haiku is humorous yet also makes a bit of a sobering point while adhering to the last line shift. Nicely done.


Now, I suppose I should post a poem or two (wait, I said almost the same thing before...). What do I have current? Not much. I've been betaing and reading far too much to write a lot, Oh, and work. A lot of work. So, here's a poem from January. The point of this one was to not use a single word twice.

Delusional

Huddled shivering
quaking from fever
which will not go down,

Bangs drip sweat
eyes clench shut
as night goes ever slower,

Clock's hands crawl forward
ticking by minutes
that seem an eternity.

Let me nod off, please,
this waking dream's unbearable,
sweet oblivion surely awaits.

Full moon taunts outside
streaming weak light in
pitching strange shadows about.

When is rest coming?
Eyelids bat once, twice
but refuse to stay shut.

Thrumming fan blades above
keep my mind active with noise
and do little cooling.

Sun peeks over horizon,
sleep a memory unrealized -
the disease lives another day.

[Phoenix Wolf offline]

A Myriad of silver stars flash and flaunt their light.
In heaven's ebony velvet halls in the reaches of the night.
Their faces shine with radience and their costumes sparkel white.
While glowing trumpeters play bold and brave, blow with all their might.
The dances all continue until dawns first rays shine bright.
THe sun awakes and like the golden eagle takes to flight.

[Malkmusian offline]

Stonecreek: Epic

BillyGirl: Visionary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's mine. It's called "Kabillion".
______________________________________

When our world is threatened,
When are lives are at risk,
Who can save us? Obviously not Jason and Aaron.

From the guys who have seen way too many movie trailers,
This comes a cheap knockoff of the great films we have seen,
Where we see Bruce Banner's green birthday suit and Hellboy smashed by a meteor,
Even though I know Abe Sapien and Liz Sherman would save that good demon from his damnation.

When the most enchanting part comes in,
Your Royal Highness was killed by a taxi,
And when Carrie walks into the spotlight,
We find out she looks like a manly girl.

However, Juno aka the Zohan is to stop her,
By stealing a trick written by Apatow and Sandler.
She removes one shoe and sock, kicks "Carrie" silly,
And allows premature labor to happen so her baby could make Carrie taste the taste.

This is truly a movie disaster!
Not a disaster movie, a movie disaster!

Four kids, all scattered from the world,
Were on their ways to have better lives,
Until they discovered a ticket that allowed them to become,
The living flesh of Crispin Glover's new and secretive plan.

As they escape his mansion and into Gnarnia, CA,
They come across the gay Mr. Tumnus and a cheap Mr. Beaver.
They fight with Aslo, who's obviously the worst,
Interpretation of Aslan I have seen.

Aslo died; the world mourns,
But they party and Mystique falls to Peter's whims.
They are the only fighters, but Kal Penn saves them all,
But using Sonny's time-traveling remote and killing that woman.

This is a movie disaster.
Not an epic movie, but a movie disaster.

The gay men, a fact, in Sparta, Greece,
Have decided to wage war against a guy who speaks like Tay Zonday.
They recruit 13 men, including Owen as Dilio,
And set across the countryside, eating Krispy Kreme.

They break-dance their way across the Persian Death Eaters.
They get judged by America's Next Top Model.
They encounter the Sandbox mode of Grand Theft Auto,
But they sacrifice a guy's head to Balboa.

Balboa dies of Botox, but Ken Davititan has a plan.
He grabs Michael's Allspark, a low-rider, and becomes a robot,
Who plays Chris Crocker and Rick Astley all night long,
But the Spartans die except for blind Owen as Dilio.

This is a movie disaster.
Not Frank Miller's graphic novel, but a movie disaster.

Many people climb aboard Trans-American's famous flight,
From LAX to O'Hara Airport.
Little do they know, the marine creature is poisoned,
So the incompetent Robert Hays saves the day.

He really went on to console his girlfriend,
But she didn't respect him nor did she trust him.
Because he remembered that he killed his buddies in the war,
One was made into Negativland's pawn.

He, Julie, and Steve McCroskey,
Save the day by sniffing glue.
They land the plane, and I'd like to shake their hands,
Because this movie was so freaking funny, I almost died!

THIS IS NOT A MOVIE DISASTER!!
It's "Airplane!", not any of the crap Jason and Aaron wrote!

[Stonecreek]

Virtual Princess: First, the main rule of this thread is to comment on others poetry when posting some of your own, or even when you have nothing to post. That said, your poem, while short, says a lot. I am not a big fan of the same rhyme for six lines in a row, as it sounds overly sing-songy. But your grasp of strong/weak beat in meter is good, and only falls off in lines 4 and 6. Work on expanding your writing, and throwing in more rhymes, like an ABAB CDCD pattern, or even try non-rhyming poetry.

Malkmusinan: "Kabillion" is a good send-up of the modern movie culture that at times is a bit rambling. With you, I am never sure what you are getting at, and that is both a good and a bad thing. Your poetry is out there, probably understood only by you, yet some times that is the best, most truthful kind of poetry there is. I'd take out the last four lines, and this would be a far better poem for it while still getting your point across. "I picked a helluva day to quit sniffing glue" - maybe that would help in reading the poem.

Now for mine. Fresh off the legal pad, onto your computer screens! It's a world premiere, which is strange now-a-days, where almost all my poetry gets posted atallpoetry.com first. This one comes with two end lines: which do you like better?

Dearth
Tapping into that vein again
which ran dry oh so long ago,
searching for a fount of ways
in whch knowledge no longer flows.

Bubbling beneath the surface
pent up and refusing to vent,
a carbonation gone sickeningly flat
gurgling down the drain it's sent.

Scarring skin and razing land
uncovering naught but vacant space
in which once dwelled that now sought -
that slowly, silently, was erased.

Left thirsting for the salvation swig
from a chalice yet to be unearthed,
still plowing, digging, on the quest
for an intellectual rebirth.

Looking within and without hope
is all which is left to steadfastly cling
to the end of the fruitless search
for a reason for humanity to sing / for an unjustly decrowned king.

[Stonecreek]

Double-posting to bump this back where it belongs. Do people NEVER check the link in my sig.? Anyway, some short poems again.

Meal

Quiet sun-bathed veld
Zebra grazing peacefully

The cheetah unfurls.

Closer Than I Hoped

It's only now, with my view redefined
that I see the real you in wholly new sight,
and the pain that I see, it shakes my resolve
to you and to me and to all that we've built.

I find myself asking if I can take on this strain,
stretch myself thin only to do it again?
But the tearing apart that I've done inside
is nothing compared to all you've been through.

So I choose to stay close to what I cherish most
and hope that it's not all one big sham on your part,
that deep within you long for the struggle to end
and the storm to stop swirling behind haunted eyes.

I lend my love as a crutch, and hope for the same
so we may endure that which is yet to come
and hope inside you that your fragile walls hold
the same way we do to the last shreds of us.

Fortitude

A steady diet of self-doubt
only sates hunger for so long
till it consumes from inside out
the pabulum that kept you strong.
Now you question what's right and wrong
and ask to which you'll acquiesce -
submit to the three siren's song
or join the choir of the blessed?

[Sithking Zero offline]

I wrote this poem about Unrequited Love between two characters I made.

Unrequited

Your eyes
Your worried visage
Your lips
Your beauty

They are what I think of when I think of our world.

You are beautiful
Smart and strong
Amazing in so many ways
You saved my life
I saved yours

But it was never meant to be

I knew my place
I knew my home
I could never be with you
I can never be with you
I can never stop thinking about you

Even in the darkest night
All I have to do is close my eyes
You’re right there with me.

I gained power
I fought my brother
We all nearly lost you.

We went our own ways
I met her
You fell for him
But I never stopped

When she fell
I took my child
I ran to you
You gave me a home
For a while.

He once said to me I don’t know what pain is
He said it was watching his sister suffer

He’s wrong.

Agony is watching you
A treasure to never be touched

Suffering is staring at you
Wishing that those were my hands in your hair

Misery is knowing that
No matter what I do
I will never be with you.

Can’t you hear me?
Can’t you see me?
Can’t anyone feel my pain?

Or am I the blowhard who sits in the corner while all of existence mocks me?

[Stonecreek]

First, don't forget to comment on others' work. That is the main point of the thread - to get the poetry out there and get feedback on it.

As for your poem, SZ, I am really liking it until the line "We all nearly lost you after that." It just is too long in comparison to the rest of the line lengths in the poem up to that point, so flow-wise, it really sticks out. Later, you use longer lines again in this stanza:
"He once said to me I don’t know what pain is
He said it was watching his sister suffer "
but it works there because it is its own stanza, and thus does not sound out of place. The same is true of the last line. Overall, I really feel sucked into this poem, despite not knowing these characters that you have created. That I feel for their story is a testament to the fact that this is a good poem.

[Sithking Zero offline]

Sorry, haven't ever used this thread before.

Wow... really? Thanks! I... I'm touched. By the way, I took care of that problem line so it fits better.

Okay, now on your three poems:

Meal:

Meh, okay, I guess. I like Haiku because they're clever, but I'm not a big fan.


Closer than I hoped:

Very good, very good. I can see the perspective... sorta... I dunno, I can be bad at interpreting things. It's a guy who's in pain.... emotional pain... and he hopes that his friend... you know, I don't know. I always was more literal.

Fortitude:

Great! Very deep, detailing the trials of self-doubt and.... well, it's pretty darn awesome.

[Stonecreek]

Thanks for the comments, Sithking. I suppose I should share another poem, though my store of them is running low. I sorta like this one, sorta don't. The prompt for it was, "if you judge people, you will never have time to love them."

Laid Bare

I have a school-boy crush, you say
but I insist I love you so,
to which you say no,
no you don't. I'll try
to make you understand.
Answer this one question:
how do you see me?

I cannot come up with a quick repsonse,
so she provides one to fill the gap:
superficially, shallowly,
and not at all the inner me,
the one you see is ambiguity
and idealized and a falsity.

I stutter and say that isn't true,
but my wide-eyed gaze holds nothing back,
so she sees the lie I tell myself
and how I see her in the watery eyes
that blink, once, twice, three times:
and still my vision does not change.

And by the time she's turned her face,
the dream girl's still burned in my eyes,
and as much as I try to erase
to see what's buried underneath
the only thing that's left to find:
is something ugly I can no longer hide.

[Carth]

Stonecreek: Some of the wording kinda threw me off but overall the idea of the poem is very sweet and sad, to me, anyway. It makes me think of an end to innocence, almost.

I guess certain parties would be very happy if I revived this thread...I was given an assignment in French class to compose a poem along the model of Jacques Prevert's "Le message", a surrealist poem about "quelqu'un" (someone) who commits suicide after receiving a letter. Mine's a little less depressing, but a tad archaic considering my lack of mastery of the language and the simplistic form. French first, English second. Translation's literal except for "incendie", which actually means "to burn down". And I got rid of the quis.

Le Théâtre

Le script qui quelqu’un a lieu
Les actions qui quelqu’un a répété
Le nuit qui quelqu’un a redouté
La scène qui quelqu’un a menti
Le foule qui quelqu’un déteste
Le garçon qui quelqu’un a regardé
L’amore qui quelqu’un a reçu
La scène qui quelqu’un laisse
Le garçon qui quelqu’un embrasse
Le théâtre qui quelqu’un incendie
Le nuit oú quelqu’un recommence

The Theater

The script someone has read
The movements someone has repeated
The night someone has dreaded
The stage where someone has lied
The crowd someone detests
The boy someone has seen
The love someone has received
The stage someone leaves
The boy someone embraces
The theater someone destroys
The night someone is reborn

I have another one (based on Prevert's "Premier Jour", which involves death from childbirth, yay for optimism) due Monday, which might mean another post 8D

[Stonecreek]

I really like the last line (at least in English; frankly, all the q's in the French version scare me off). It is simple, yet says a lot.

Now, which poem of mine to post? I seem to ask myself that every time I put a new one here. But now, I have only one I am willing to post since i last posted a poem. It is a string of two tankas (5-7-5-7-7).

Civilization's Decline

In our forlorn age
the only joy we cling to
lies not with our friends
but with objects we collect
and the money spent on them

Words are meaningless
when not spoken face to face
instead sent through phones
texts tapped out in rapid bursts
ring the death knell of discourse

[Carth]

Stonecreek: Fantastic social commentary! It does sort of make me mourn that some of the best friends I've ever had were reached through typed word on a several hundred dollar laptop...and I like the sort of underlying theme of no personal relationships.

This bit I wrote in French class...it's ever so slightly CL-inspired, except not really much. It's more inspired by just having read T.S.Elliot's "The Waste Land", and being both enchanted with obscure imagery and repulsed by the recurring themes of hopelessness and lack of ambition. The title's a direct reference to that poem's theme of winter being "the kindest month". It needs refinement. Like a lot.

(And "first mountains" are volcanoes.)

Springtime

When I met you first your soul
leapt from your skin
and sprinkled itself
like the dust on the snow
which would rest on my heart
like the tender first mountains.

You ran through the streets naked
With a song on no lips
And your footprints burned the town
but they cleaned up the mess.

I tried to save every spot where you stood,
but we cannot stop the march of progress.
I tried to catch you for my own,
but you withered in the cold.
You live when you spread yourself,
and I had to let you go.

One the streets, in the halls,
it's clear we've moved ahead
And yet these aging men
Teach their children to walk in rings
I took your soul from my pocket
And watched it spread in the air

[Stonecreek]

Carth - Man, that's beautiful. I think I like it better than any of your other poems. A question/comment or two:

1. "With a song on no lips" - Shold that be your instead of no?
2. The first two lines of the third stanza seem/sound a bit long in relation to the rest of the poem.

I really was struck by the first and last stanzas, and espcially by the use of imagery throughout.

Now, I actually do not have a poem to post. None I feel confident in, anyway. I know, I am shocked, too.

[Carth]

Hm. I guess that means I don't need to comment on your nonexistent poem! Yay.

I always find myself at my most creative when I really should be doing something else. I threw this together in the last five minutes. It's inspired by several things- the William/Yumi/Ulrich love triangle, dream worlds, abstract poetry, et cet. I'm not totally sure what it's about- I guess conflicting definitions of love. Le shrug.

Premier, Secondair

Two brothers, conjoined at the waist,
With gentialia equal and uncertain.
Neither can see the other, though they would love nothing more.
Their hands are wrapped around each other's throats;
At a word from her, one would tighten.

Day in and day out they ask her,
"Tell me, my love, is he Premier?"
"I can't be Premier while he exists."
"That's all nonsense, because only one of us can live
And we know you must survive."
"But she loves you so."
"Should she love you, though?"

And when she says yes Secondair says and does nothing,
But Premier's eyes blur with tears as his brother chokes.
"He wasn't nothing."
"I can only love you."
"Let him go."
"I want to."
"Then please."
"I cannot marry two men."

He scowls and tells her, "Foolish girl!
Is love a ring on a finger, a night in a bed?
Or is love an arrangement of arbitrary grey matter?
Can you discard one because you take the other?"
She thinks long and hard
And she says, "Release them."
Atrophied fingers break free, the brothers fall.
They see each other for the first time as their necks are freed.

"Can we live inside your heart?"
"I don't see why not."
"You are everything I'm not," Premier tells his brother.
They lean in and make as if to kiss,
But melt into one before they touch,
and she collects them as she is on her way.

[SearchingLyoko offline]

Very awesome poems. I am going to try to compose my own soon, though I'm busy lately.

[ODDCHEEZY offline]

Carth: whoa.....that was reeeeeeeeeeeeally good. No lie I almost cried...I don't know if that's the emotion you wanted from a reader but that's what you got.

I don't have a title for this but if you have a suggestion please lemme know. It needs to be named...


You look at me with love but not the one I want,
I’m your “little sisterâ€

[SearchingLyoko offline]

How about "Close Friends".


Idk...
__________

I will work on my big epic-like poem... soon.

[Just_Jaine offline]

In the shadow of the moon
Where everything is still
There lies a midnight flower
Gently swaying.

The simple peace
Of a falling leaf
Or the gentle crash of waves,
Never changing, stopping, starting.

In the moonlight dances a girl.
1-2-3 1-2-3 1-2-3 1
The grass is unmoving,
The trees are not swaying
The only movement is of the girl and her flower.

The waltz of the dawn fairy
Gingerly stepping, dewdrop to dewdrop.
The song of a pan flute,
Soft as mist drifting to the ground.

The night is still,
The moon is still,
And for a moment, time is still.

[Stonecreek]

Overall, I like the poem. I do feel there are a couple of line length issues that disrupt the flow in the third stanza. I'd take out one of the 1-2-3's, and in that stanza's last line, remove 'of the' to make the rhythm tighter. I really like the scene painted here; it's just right for this time of evening (and time of year too, I suppose).

Once again, I have no poem I feel confident of posting. I have focused so much on drabbling lately (I have four of those I am working on) that poetry has slid by the wayside a bit. Sorry.

[Carth]

Ooh, pretty! The poem makes me happy, but somehow the meter feels...off. I dunno.

I wrote this today randomly. It's short, but I think it has a lot of meaning.

God

I saw God today,
Sitting in the morning
At the foot of my bed.

And he said Son,
Pardon the interruption,
But where am I?

[Stonecreek]

Almost a bit too short, Carth. Why was God sitting on the bed? What was he inturrupting? I like the idea that he doesn't recognize the world he created, though.

As for my poem: it has no title, is probably not finished, and was mainly wirtten so as to get back into poetry-writing form.

There is a little bit
of there/not-there light
perforating clouds
in the city's waning hours.

The rain gently splashes
against the fading pavement
seeking out the soil
to paint the world green.

A lingering mild chill
still permeates the air
reminding one and all
of what has yet to come.

[Carth]

*goes into artistic rage, donning a beret, turtleneck and weak mustache for effect* Eet eez supposed to be short! The reeder is supposed to draw theeir own conclusions from eet! You are unimaginative and do not know the true meaning of art! *discards beret and weak mustache* Sorry. I think the beret began to fuse to my brain in that last sentence.

As for your poem, it's definitely gorgeous- I love all the descriptors- but does not seem to have any goal to it. It's almost nonsense beauty- but that could also be an additional charm.

I have not a poem. Except this. But it's more of a line than a poem.

Fear of sleep is like fear of sex.
They both can cause pain,
but we don't like to think about it.

[Overcaffeinated Sloth offline]

Well, I feel rather silly about posting here, but... I passed in a poem for Creative Writing, and I... didn't get to talk to my peer editor much, and I'd like some opinions.

Hello, Londonderry. How are you? How’s it goin’? How’re the kids? Your wife, your husband, your dog?
I just wanted to check in. I thought of you the other day and laughed. Though I’d share, for old time’s sake.
I just wanted to tell you, Londonderry, that
I. Hate. You.

I hate your Technicolor forests hiding your fragrant apple orchards.
I hate your glistening apples, too. Firm, shimmering with dew scattered on the surface, letting off the cool, relaxed scent of blossoms, cucumbers, and cinnamon.
Bite in, feel the crack of the apple leather splitting under your teeth, and enjoy the honey and nectar raining down.
Take a second one, and tang turns sharp. Nectar becomes poison. Glisten becomes mildew, spawning pestilence on the surface. The bug bites, the fungus, the mold, rot, and decay, curdle and ooze out.
And it's only when venom hijacks senses, that you hear the tainted siren call ringing through the branches. The whistle in the trees that was never noticed before.

I hate your nineteen fifties all-American nostalgia clinging to the trees and the buildings and the relics and the ideals. You fear a red scare, hypochondriac, paranoid, nonexistent, spying.
A scratch, a rash, infection, disease. Bubbling inside, searing your veins, so deep inside you claw through your skin, your muscle, your brain, your heart, to get that itch.
That you stitch scraps of shredded skin with your hair, lacing together the remnants of your own mistakes, then stuffing yourself with your offspring.
I hate your football games and your pep rallies. I hate your chess games and beauty pageants.
I hate your plays of grace and fraternity, when you are nothing but fool's gold encrusted in earwax.

I hate your sheep, the children that you rear, raise, to be your clones.
Your illusions of protection and harmony, singing your children lullabies of discord.
Your princes, your angels, your pawns, your hogs swathed in spidery veils of disillusion.
Just so they grow up to be your clone, to be no different than those that proceeded them, the ones that tried to defy mortality by suckling the blood of their young.

I writhe in disgust that you throw other's young to the wolves, your wolves, to your children, because they are not your children.
I hate that you smother the earnest, the peaceful, the quiet, and the strange, because you take the easy lie and do not act.
That you pile on intangible sandbags until they drown in an ocean, then trick, craft, dupe them to believe they suffocated themselves. Let them implode, collapse, excuse them, sweep them into cement rooms with white and blue and gray walls and rusted closets with barely a light.
Mark them, label them, ex them, cut them, and sell them for federal and state grants. You sold these bastard children that interfere with your pretty dynasty.

I hate you for the purgatory you put me though. That only eighteen-hundred miles away could I peer over your massive girth, take in the gluttonous child-eater in its whole.
You broke me down and shattered me and crushed the pieces and ground the shards into sand and then sprinkled it in the community cat litter.
I hate you, because every sound magnifies on my head, forming into a screaming sea. And then you threw me off a cliff into that sea. I despise that you bound my feet in cement, an homage to your good mafia idols, then had the gall to make me think I drowned myself.
I hate that I had to be pulled out, couldn't thrash around enough to swim.

But I don’t wish any ill will, of course. I laugh, in fact..
You can't infect what's already rotten.

Isn't it funny? Thought you'd get a kick out of that.
With Love, XXXXXX

Well, that's just as embarassing copying and pasting as it is reading it out loud. Whadda'ya know?

Anyways, for this, I wanted to delve into a complex emotion. i wanted to use powerful imargery to build perspective. I really wanted to swear the heck out of it, but I felt using a more poetic and descriptive phrasing added a more mature and less angsty air to it. I think starting as a letter with an overly-friendly approach helps to add almost a... demented, crazed vibe to it, too.

My favorite parts? The line about the earwax, lacing together mangled skin with hair and stuffing with children, and the can't infect what's already rotten bit.

Anyways, I'm hoping this turns out alright, because I'm making it the text to an art piece I want to do soon, and I need to decide whether or not to show this to friends from "Londonderry"

Or, it's horrible, and I should stick to writing chapters for novels and comics. <,< >.>

[Stonecreek]

AB, I like the first line of the second section best. Overall, I feel there is way too much repetition of the I hate phrase.

As for this piece, it is by no means finished. I just needed to write some poetry - needed to when I realized I'd gone almost a year without producing anything in this form. C&C greatly appreciated.

Fugue

I like my world
with a bit of blur
clear and defined
just aren't for me.
Though there is beauty
in crisp outlines,
I like my borders
to have some give.

So go my rules,
so go my loves
inherently abstract
and in flux constantly.
Never set in stone,
just always in motion
ebbing and flowing,
resisting rigidity.

Yet why is it my way
feels less a comfort
and more a tumult
that I am dying to flee?
Regulations are not me,
but they might have made me more.

Is what I've known wrong
or warped beyond repair?
My mind vacillates
looking for some purchase.
Do I long for the concrete
and abhor the deviations?
Will I ever be able
to hold steady in the chaos?