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Alexandra Nuccio Poem
Lost time doesn’t circulate
I was having a hard time finding my light switch in the dark
Colorful, temporary
Grey, permanent
Sore calves and heavy head
Tisses and black shoelaces
I’m 18, and I don’t feel well enough to get up before 2pm
One was too familiar with female anatomy
Shrunken embroidery, spilt detergent
A lisp through the walls
You can feel it now, in the side of your neck
I got 5 hours on Wednesday night
Inability to not do tasks thoroughly
My right eye feels like it’s falling down torwards my left
Ear plugs, melatonin, darkness
How far am I from Earth’s core
Have I corrupted anyone?
It’s still the same but I can control myself
We have a thousand starting points
Everything loses its purity
Everything loses its purity
I don’t water what I’ve already grown
I own acres of land, filled with barely sprouted crop
What is it, if not the individual
Wait for yourself and it won’t go backwards
I’m still here and haven’t gotten much done
I find comfort in discomfort
I will choose to be alone
It’s hard to grasp enthusiasm
I’m angry because I’m foggy headed
Pulse fixation
I don’t think it’s an issue
1,851 on the 17th, 1,740 on the 18th
Fixation on the non-existent or previously existing
Ignorance torwards the currently existing
An ongoing cycle of desire and watered-down hate
Ego, rising and falling
There’s some races you don’t need to restart
Being seen makes me feel vunerable
But I’d rather not direct a world of my own
I dread making decisions
The bad, embarassing thing
Static surrounded shadows
Craved only when reminded
I wish I was a force of some sort
I don’t know if that was part of the reason then, and I don’t know if it is now
It invariably shifted at all hours
There were time slots
Parts of my mind fall asleep so that others can awaken
Copyright © Alexandra Nuccio | Year Posted 2019
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Details |
Alexandra Nuccio Poem
A reflection is on the white board
It’s the shapes of the light fixtures above me
But wait? How does this work?!
Reflection and shadow try their best to replicate
Do they mourn their lack of clarity and unoriginality?
Representing your own doubts and questions
they’re quick and temporary
What’s going to happen next?
Red and white and short and fat
Filled with air and souls that stitch themselves to one another
And If it feels right
It isn’t the bodies that are wrapping themselves around eachother
You’re looking out for yourself
Is there a name for that?
In either case are you bound to death?
How is it decided which leaves of the summer tree grow first
Do they feel fear, watching their branch-mates brown and loose grip on what birthed them?
But it’s interesting that he sets up a kind of structure, and it’s an interesting structure
Copyright © Alexandra Nuccio | Year Posted 2019
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