playful
yesterday on the bus, i wrote a poem that didn't mean anything. it was about being able to hear the shape, the impression of someone's face in a song, despite having never seen them and despite the song not being explicitly about that.
it isn't a very good poem. I wouldn't say i'm happy with it; but i am content to leave it as it is. there's nothing impactful or profound within it, unless you feel that you want to search for that and thus create it for yourself.
it's just a poem. a collection of words, arranged in such a way that they're playful and intense, but divorced of any real meaning.
it's been a while since i wrote a poem i was content with. most of my poetry is deep, meaningful, about something important to me, whether that's for pleasant reasons or out of intense mental illness.
notably, this is different from them being good. but they are always about something.
this one, wasn't. i wrote it for the sake of writing it, from a single first line that arose in my head while i was half asleep. i think it meant something to me then, as half-asleep thoughts so often do until the moment you fully wake up.
it didnt mean anything by the time i wrote it later that afternoon. it doesnt mean anything now. it wont mean anything to me later, or when you read it at the end of this post.
but, even through the sticky, tarry apathy i was drowning in at the time, it felt really good to write it. it feels good to indulge in creativity just for the sake of it.
this will seem trite, but... it's really important to let yourself play, just for the sake of playing. find some enjoyment and respite in meaningless, fun, heartfelt actions.
the most beautiful kinds of art and connection can come out of that kind of play, i think. it's not actually meaningless at all.
usually i'd be embarassed about how much better i feel today, after letting myself indulge in that a little bit... but i don't think i want to. i'm proud of it.
awawawa 💚🩷💛
- - - - - -
(okay, i lied a little... it's still hardly perfect, but i did sit and fuck with it a little more before posting it here. imperfection isn't the opposite of perfection, it's the process of getting there. and we're getting there.)
i think i remember your face from a song
a song of flesh and ashes and bone
in the verse, the curve of your jaw
and then a chorus of all your flaws
the shine of your eyes,
painted in syllables, line by line
so i cried, to hear your shape sung
recognition woven through the thunder of drums
a fleeting glimpse, silhouette
in every refrain and errant hum
never truly seen
only heard
the first-last memory of you i’ll ever have
hidden amidst each indrawn breath,
each temporary note, each immortal chord
burning up, away with every exhaled word