I am from paint,
From acrylics that stain my hands.
I am from books huddled for warmth on a shelf.
(Thick with pages holding words that lie,
yet all of them are true.)
I am from those words,
And how they turn into my paint
Because words and paint are both soft,
The same.
I’m from stories written
With a piece of a soul.
I’m from pages that are better read
Squinting through eyeglasses with a thick rim.
I’m from reading in the light of a passing streetlamp
Before the words go dark when the car moves on.
I’m from the fields and the shires,
Turns about the room and second breakfasts.
From my eyeglasses cracking under my fingers
When I clean them with my rag too hard.
Outside my window are rooftops with sandy ridges,
Seats for little birds with feathered wings,
That I might paint one day
If only I had it.
I am from these moments—
Between feeding the birds (for a small fee)—
And now I’m me.
(Absent) Word Count: 175
Oh my gosh, Annabelle, I loved your poem! I loved the line “I’m from stories written with a piece of a soul” because that’s what stories are. They’re like children that you raise in a way. Without realizing it when you can’t figure out what to write next, you turn to your own life and take what you’ve been through as inspiration, making your stories truly part of your soul.
ReplyDeleteReading your poem I also remembered something that I did when I was really little that I completely forgot about. When you mentioned “reading in the light of a passing streetlamp before the words go dark when the car moves on” I suddenly remembered that I used to do that. We’d be driving home from swim practice and I’d be itching to know what happened next in my book. Unable to wait until I got home, I’d try and try so hard to read in the almost pitch-black car with, of course, no success, wishing that the roads had more street lamps so I could read my book.
Thank you so much for your poem, it was amazing!
Reading your poem, It made me learn so much about you. You seem to be a really calm and collected person, and the way you linked yourself to the comfort made it all the more enjoyable. If your poem was a vibe, it would be smooth and peaceful. Nice blog!
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