I went creeping through my old journals today. In 2002, I was 22 years old. By then I had shed my outer goth but my early scratches in poetry (while meant to be paying attention in class) still reflected that side of me. I’m sharing two of them.
*I feel a shudder run down my spine*
(not part of the poems, just my experience as I type these out)
The attic movers are at it again
They’re stirring up things that ought to be dead
With steel dusters they fling up
Things that I want kept down
I was perfectly happy with the cobwebs on the crates
Boxes labeled Too bad, Too long, Too late
They pry up the decayed wood and rusted nails
Those attic movers can’t keep their fingers
From behind my eyes they glare
Demanding an answer
Answer to what?
I’m supposed to know?
They don’t tell me
I fire the lot
The attic movers always come back
They are dedicated fellows
An uncommon spring
Flowing of uneasy things
The source – a blackened peak beyond purple fields
And lightning filled skies
So few are made to traverse
They must be born from the spring
Of such natural / unnatural things
Feel free to share your thoughts or your own attempts in poetry. I can say, in all honesty, the ones written in college may embarrass me now, but I can also say they contain more sincerity than what I wrote in later years. The privilege of youth I suppose.