This is Not Poetry

This Is Not Poetry.

Francesse

I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX

I. This is not poetry and I am not a poem; I am a ready river that will flow until I hit a pebble upon a silent shade, which hinted of the sweetness I once possessed, the rhythm I once made my own I did not want a poem for I have found that journeys through words usually are evidence of thirst as one is less silent, the wilderness, with the noise, grows. This is not what is expected and I did not intend for it to be; This is not a cycle of uplifting verses, neither abused nor trusted rhymes These are wind chimes rattling where theres supposed to be no breeze a careless song upon an empty head. This is not poetry and I am not a poem please stop trying to make me so and to see me as such, there is already a heaviness hanging low upon that shred of light the Sun had bothered to share; I do not need any more foundations to build tried and tested structures upon to make it even more so you have eyes, you must see; you must already know.

II. I am hungrier than a lonely cat in an open meadow, with none but a Violet for company, in bloom, one that seem to only appear in dreams. And think of this cat the wide-eyed, slack-jawed pause of the moment; the prelude to a hunt. And you begin to think, How dare you compare yourself to something as majestic as this? That draws the softest flickers from even the most still wind, that favoured its eyes just one less step of a burning lamp, how dare you? and I would say you have made sense, at least, more sense than the triggers of what already motivated one to create such thoughts in the first place for hunger brings us to the loneliest and most desperate of places, the lowest of low where one would think that such beasts are more wonderful than the eyes that perceive them. And it is in these moments where say that we do not understand, why, I feel like a stranger to an April-child a Violet tinge to a yellowed year, too distant, the limbs outstretched, and claws are out and purrs are meowed, and eyes, eyes have danced like knives; the eyes are sharper than hands that the stalk shies away as the flowers fragrance was muted. The geography is rich almost everywhere else; Why do you stay?

III. Passeriforme, why did you give me such a considerable head-start?

IV. Several leaves ahead the tree mourns the fall, I am several leaves ahead. You must take a leap, but Life does not work like this; I am several leaves ahead there is one thing that I must tell you: that you must leap and meet me there, several leaves ahead, I am several leaves ahead, its like a song that I wanted to get out of my head; I am several leaves ahead, I am several leaves ahead.

V. And in the mess of things I find myself seeking for that one true constant: what am I aiming for? Have I wanted the solitude more, with my spine like soft palms caressing ridges of trimmed tin, watching stars? Have I wanted someone with me? I do not know; I promised, declared, this is not poetry, and I am not a poem. Shout, no one thinks you are! Really? I would like to know what your 2AM thoughts consist of, how in the middle of the nightmares you created yourself, the flood of tears remind you of how overflowing your love is you do not understand. Your love is your eyes red, swollen that love is pure and beautiful tells me that this is not love. That I appeal and challenge tells me right now that my thoughts are unreliable (must I stop?). I am happy second-guessing I keep telling myself this,

VI. Underneath the stairs, as I live and breathe, my thoughts, they coalesce in pink. I feel safe; there are no joints, there is no breach, I wondered why I even bothered to put up doors (they never open, or never will again, or so I thought, but then April came along and I fell into a trap the kind of trap that makes you want to write very long thoughts inside a lengthy parenthetical this is not practical. But in a way, that makes the thoughts even more special). Underneath the stairs theres even less tone than the world outside, but sometimes this is a good thing, sometimes people want it simple unmarred by complex shades of colour; no sharps or flats, no accents or accidentals, sometimes people just want pink, and that will be enough. Right now, all I want is pink; right now all I want is just to think of how painfully pleasant you are.

VII. I wish we havent met is what I most likely would say when I find myself in uncertain situations like this. It is not a matter of difficulty of emotion, shortness of breath, and soft and sweet whispers, it isnt, What it is, is a matter of people, and peoples eyes it is a matter of what they see, and how they see, It is not a matter of waiting, for although there is already the willingness to wait, waiting does nothing to bring you closer it is pointless; time is insignificant but necessary. I can only hope that when I see you again, youll be willing to forget what curses time cast upon this beast; but I can only wait, I can only wait, and waiting is pointless.

VIII. Life is a sylvioid warbler, golden and vocal, that decides when to sing and when to fly on its own volition, that decides what song to sing, be it a sunlit rush of cymbal winds or a darker forest of leafy sharps, that decides whether flight is a conscious choice or primal survival instinct, that decides whether eyes see them as song or game, Life is a sylvioid warbler that decides.

IX. This is not poetry, and I am not a poem are you still reading, April-child? I am now happy, I have found my home you are young, and daring; you are wild. I was quite unsure what to say before, but for now I do not mind, What the years may bring, what they have in store I will take what I will find.

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This is Not Poetry