me and the trees are both dripping water. Pathetic in every way. I slump on the bench in my comfortable shoes. I'm mostly dry and, even though it's raining gallons of water, the multiple layers of mostly new clothes that I'm wearing keep me warm. And I'm feeling sorry for myself.
There's a man talking to himself, picking the scabs caused by the wounds he inflicted on himself while being attacked by a man that only he could see.
A woman with bruises on her face and blood in her hair because she's afraid to leave the man who fathered the children she can't afford. And I see the children and they're beautiful and sad. And they have bruises on their faces, and I feel sorry for me.
I sit here in the Park District- my hands balancing my head like the claw feet of a bath tub, my head slung low and my long hair hiding any emotion that my face might allow to be shown.
I look up and I see a man. He curls up into a ball recalling the warmth of his mother's womb. His bed is made of wet grass and the hoodie he has on. He hides his face. The scars from years of abuse, self-inflicted and otherwise, and he'll sleep here all night and I'll have a nice warm bed and a roof over my head and food and beer in my belly when I tuck myself in.
And I cry because I'm so damn pathetic.
I'm glad you asked.
You see- I can't write right now.
My muse seems to have left me and so everything I write seems so crappy. I think I think too much. The man lying on the wet grass starts to snort and snore and it pisses me off because he's interrupting my train of thought and I yell for him to shut the hell up.
And he does.
Maybe I just need to relax. Maybe I just-
"Can you spare some change sir?" A woman who was born around the time of Mesopotamia, her face is filled with the feet of a thousand crows. She's hunched over, and she can't stand still- her hand trembles as she reaches out to me with it. She smells like urine mixed with vodka mixed with Pall Mall's- the cigarettes that Kurt Vonnegut smoked. I gag when I see her. I gag when her odor reaches my nostrils.
I pull my head phones out of my ear and say "What?" and she says again "Can you spare some change sir?" And I tell her "no I don't have any" and I put my ear phones back in and try not to watch her as she stumbles down the sidewalk.
I've lost my train of thought. Another tangent. Damn you you old woman!
I need to relax. If I'm going to write again and write well- i need to find my muse. I need to stop comparing myself to those polished beatniks at the Sunday Night Poetry Slams and just accept that maybe poetry is not my gift.
Maybe the world doesn't need another Ginsburg. Maybe the world doesn't need another Frost. Another Whitman.
Scab Man distracts me. He's telling nobody at the top of his lungs that he didn't mess with nobodies' wife and he needs to leave him the fuck alone. He scratches his arm viciously and howls and I am annoyed.
I've lost my train of thought.
I enjoy writing. I'd like to be good at it. Maybe even great. I think what I need is to gain some perspective. I need to find something to write about. Something that will touch people.
I get up from the bench and trudge through the mud puddles and get into my nice warm, dry car. I take a final look around the park I was just sitting in and I sigh to myself, sad that there's nothing there for me to write about.
Homelessness in America
According to the Department of Housing and Urban Development, as many as 3.5 million people experience homelessness in a given year (1% of the entire U.S. population or 10% of its poor), and about 842,000 people in any given week.Most were homeless temporarily. The chronically homeless population was over 123,000 in 2007.
Some Good Poetry Books
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the destination is not half as fun as the journey
An analysis of the poem, the Filling Station, by American poet laureate, Elizabeth Bishop.
The author writes a letter to his six year old self, explaining the origins of his emetophobia