who isn’t you
wise readers
will know the difference
I want a narrator
more unsettling
than Nabokov created
for ‘Lolita’
I want a narrator
to cringe at
while sympathizing with
I need “milk plus”
from ‘Clockwork Orange’
while I learn the dialect
of Anthony Burgess
before I ruin Beethoven
It takes sustained energy
to hate a character
while never forgetting them
“My vanity
was the cause
of it”
I still wink at you,
Moll Flanders
a woman too clever
for shallow understanding
My “androgynous mind”
will have to be enough
for adequate love,
Virginia Woolf
I have all the worst intentions:
devious dialog
with peppered,
cutting
fashion statements
to make phantom readers
laugh and scowl
Cruella Deville
taught me everything
one late afternoon
in August
while we hunted swans
over toast points
and caviar
Did I ever tell you that my sister finished school
I know you’re still mad at me but you always loved her
Pretend I’m not the one talking to you; pretend it’s just the narrator
Of your story, not mine. I know they’re separate now
She’s doing really well, my sister
She misses you
It was dark,
We were six,
The air was filled with the heavy smell of cigarettes and weed,
Some drank, 'I' did too.
You were dancing to the rhythms of jazz.
And you were gazing at the stars.
While you stared into your phone screen.
She and him talked.
And you... You were silent.
Maybe thinking
"What was the conversation?"
"What was that noise?"
"What transpired?"
And then she spoke words devoid of meanings,
Words that were abused till it bled,
Words that were round,
Words that were opaque,
Words that actually never left her mouth.
The smiling faces soon disappeared,
Confused and gloomed,
They left.
But he stayed.
What did 'I' feel?
Like,
The slithers of snake,
Shaking of the earth,
Torrent of rain,
Choked.
And then 'I' forgot.
Till today.
The day I was diagnosed.
That’s what first comes to mind.
But they want me to start at the beginning.
Maybe they mean something as simple as my childhood.
I wasted my childhood not knowing.
Then I wasted my teen years being in denial.
But still, the image of my life scattered.
Forcing me to collect new pieces to the puzzle.
Pieces that will never fit.
Yet my collection grows hopelessly.
The second time I was diagnosed.
That is the second event.
Maybe it’s easier to start from that point in time.
And explain everything more and more erratically.
Until I’ve explained everything until this moment.
Now I can narrate what is about to happen.
You will walk away nervously.
And I will walk away graciously.
Going home to frantically write and scribble.
Finding the right formula.
There’s still a few more people left in my life who deserve an explanation.
The day I was diagnosed…
Is not what matters now.
The narrator tells the story
And everyone gives their attention
They are listening accordingly
In order to understand the situation
Today's youth are encouraged
To get a valuable education
In order to become a leader tomorrow
And step forward in a positive direction
"I edit the 'Narrator in My Head..."
to speak to me only
in the positive instead"
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.