I wish I were him

I eat each piece, tearing apart the lines, ramrodding through the verbiage to find the golden rabbit. Dissecting the words, vivisecting the pulp flesh to get at the blood.
He’s so popular and I’m at a loss to explain this to my heart. Clearly he’s dug into term universe, uncovered buried gems in the trove. My eyes follow along waiting for an aha moment which I believe imminent. I continue whooshing pages beneath my flippant index finger. I’ve even welcomed a paper cut to my writing hand, my sketching fingers and if that’s not love and appreciation I don’t know what is.

Have I become jaded here, to take from this writer his every success? To deny him entry to my pathos. All these heavy-lashed eyes who cut their hearts on their emotional skins find him not only aha but voilá too. Have I grown distant, out of touch with those in near circles, the ones I stand outside of but near enough to see shapes. Really a square is what I am, too old for the shit of jumping, thumping and humping. (let’s see if that catches on like chew and screw, or her whale tail is riding high). God, when did I become such a bummer.

Gratification the millisecond glazed eyes puncture letters and back lit brains string ‘em together to chow repurposed cinema kernels. 
It’s sugar free instant pudding with no pudding skin, what the hell, the floppy sugar skin is the entire delight. Lambasted with social medium, no large, just fucking medium and you have to hit that sweet spot. Like his words, the sweet spot, he’s got it covered with a giant manhole cover.

There are lines I read now, not his, but other minds. Mind you – was I to have the exact same words in a tumbler, I could never spill out what they gloriously let flow and have us swallow greedily in want of more steaming rum on frigid nights when we’re alone with our bored hands. These exquisite things to be viewed, fondled, touched then returned behind their velvet ropes.

I grabbed from the money shelf for pretty books. His is a very pretty one. Books I sometimes buy to impress others with my vertical color collection. The truth if I may be honest with you. I don’t always read them, only some, the pretty ones. I’ve placed his words on the pretty shelf because I want to remember what I don’t know. I want to recall my head falling into a tailspin. My bones neatly following in a jerking motion. My fingers in my mouth licking my wounds the paper cuts pretty books give me.

I must be honest with myself.
I must be honest with you.
I want to be honest with him.
There are words I will never write and thoughts I will never have.
There is genuine fakeness in so much.
Even Me. Even Me. Even Me.
I don’t like the words.
But still I am wishing
I were as creative.
Still I am wishing
I were him.
sasquatchMy time is drawing near, where I will be critiqued more than usual. I’ve never read much poetry before. Of late, it’s all I do read. There are so very many spectacular and amazing writers out there – mind blowing really. And on a rare occasion, there is one, I don’t quite grasp why their words resonate with the success they do. This leads me to believe and realize, it is me. I’m the one without my finger on the pulse. And I need to continue learning. Also, I must be ready to cry, because we are all entitled to our opinions. In my heart, it’s not about the popularity, it’s the staying power. It’s creating something that doesn’t pluck a chord but strings a harp when one needs to hear such music…
Big Foot drawn last year for illustrated project

apologies for the cussing, sometimes there are no more perfect words than the most worst imperfect kind;)

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15 thoughts on “I wish I were him

  1. Beautiful writing AnnMarie. You are perfect AnnMarie and perfect to me. There are going to be voices silence out those that are not constructive or helpful for you and focus on the positive ones. AnnMarie= greatest writer and greatest artist ever You get 3 dozen woo hoo’today for being awesome!

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  2. Wow! Here’s the lines that resonate with me: “was I to have the exact same words in a tumbler, I could never spill out what they gloriously let flow and have us swallow greedily in want of more steaming rum on frigid nights when we’re alone with our bored hands.” Isn’t that just the truth? When I was in the midst of my poetry classes (will be doing a June 21 day online class with my mentor again), I had one of my Skype conferences with her and I talked about how all my poems seemed so….simple. And I look at others whose writing is so profound. She advised I read The Poetry Repair Manual by Kooser (a poet laureate) who talks about writing accessible poetry and how important that is. And so I did. And I’ve come to terms with who I am — and that my tumbler isn’t anyone elses. But I sure do understand these sentences!!

    And how I love the statement about the “vertical collection.” We had one of those for many many years — added to it from used book stores and arranged them oh so carefully on the shelf. Then we moved to our condo here — limited space and out many many many books went. And now, in rejuvenatement, if I start a book and I don’t like it, no matter the Pulitzer or any other award, I forget it. Life is too short when one gets toward the end of the span — and my colorful magnet says it all: Do More of What Makes You Happy!
    Ah my talented friend……….keep on keep on keep on. Talented — and you shall know that within yourself and many others see it too! 🙂 Happy Thursday indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m going through many artsy growing pains here in my little basement – you’d think at a certain age you’d be passed all that zaniness – but you never stop learning – you just are more aware of what you don’t know and it hurts a bit more ’cause of the time it’s going to take to acquire the skills –
      You are so very kind, my friend – for these most uplifting words. I will check out the poetry manual – looks interesting.
      I’ve purged books too, through several garage sales now – all the little fat paperbacks went first – they’re nothing but pure evil;)
      am:)
      you are a wise woman and I hope to “come to terms” 🙂 thank you for all this golden information:)

      Liked by 1 person

  3. mind seems like an amorphous sponge, reaching out to drink vitreous, super-sect life into digestible matter. I feel this way when I read someone new -trying to grab hold of the golden threads, become, absorb meaning. it is intellectual intercourse of an A-sexual nature. like reading Yeats, or Wilde’s “Sphinx” beyond the author into the created world unfolding before you.

    the human quality you describe here is personal, yet actual -in that most (if not all) poets feel this way.

    an excellent read.
    thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • we go through these endless experimental trials in our written minds – continually attempting with our very breath to be genuine to these voices in our souls and authentic to our hearts –
      sometimes we meander down those roads with other spectacular voices– not our own–and the awe can be blinding…
      I thank you for your beautiful words here
      am:)

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I often despair that I’ll never write as well as someone (many someones) I’ve just read. But I realize that I can only write what and how I write, and reading someone so good makes me aspire to improve.

    Liked by 1 person

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