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Lauren Kramer Poem
I love the smell of fresh cut wood. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know.
Why would you?
You never asked.
Wooden hearts dangling over a baby’s bassinet.
Be not hard like my wooden heart, chipped as a cedar output.
Wood is an insulator right?
Keeping it in like the charge of some electrical outlet cover.
Innocuous scriptures.
A vamp, that shouldn’t have, should have known better.
You should have asked me all my favorites.
I love the smell of wood, for wooden hearts cannot be broken.
Merely splintered and sawed of one’s own, free disposition and handiwork.
Let’s carve another organ.
One that can’t do anything but be whole.
Lucky wood.
Poetry is jagged and true, an inconspicuous fopa.
That’s not it.
I want to write a poem that is capturing.
One in which I can dice the words as may entice if not displease.
Here goes…
Copyright © Lauren Kramer | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Lauren Kramer Poem
Jaclyn said we were idle.
Idling was all we could do.
Alone, unsupervised.
I was supposed to be, tried so hard to be, keeping it in, suppressing my depression.
Raisin bran on my fingers, scrunching the oversized Frisbee.
I want that, I want this sleep. I want to sleep. I need to sleep.
Peace.
I’d miss this day.
Jaclyn would be idle alone, I couldn’t.
Fake fight, tear, goal, Coco's crap.
I really tried today.
I even caught myself laughing.
It didn’t stay long though, my laugh.
You can always tell when it’s hard and infrequent.
When you have to go out of your way to savor it.
Confess it.
I can’t write poetry.
Weeds.
I’m trying to day dream artistically and mortally but it’s near impossible.
Getting darker every day.
When I’m gone will you read this to Jaclyn?
No, please don’t.
I don’t want her to know that I’m idle eternally.
Copyright © Lauren Kramer | Year Posted 2015
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