"And as I stared I counted
Webs from all the spiders
Catching things and eating their insides
Like indecision to call you
And hear your voice of treason"
-- blink-182
Pages and pages of drafts of poems and other writing sit in a folder on my computer waiting for the day they're ready to take the stage. Unfortunately, that day has not yet come for 99% of them, and it may never come. In their stead, here lies the 1%.
This is one of the rougher things I've written in a while that I'm partially proud of. (Maybe it's just the crazy-dramatic way I read it in my head, because I'm excruciatingly confident this poem is horrible by the lowest of standards.) But, rough is honest, I've always thought. While I believe all writers hope for perfectly polished and finished work, sometimes earlier drafts of writing can hold more of the original emotion behind the piece. The only real issue is that it's said poorly and somewhat ineffectively.
I digress. Here's an unnamed piece of trash I dug out of a school notebook.
I saw you in my sleep last night.
I could not for all my might
find what gave me such a fright.
I wanted to tell you,
I wanted you,
I watched you.
But find me there you did not.
That next day, in all my hope,
against instinct and every thought
to expect from such repetitive force,
that one day became the time I look to
when hoping, hopelessly, that one of these
wishes I have in my heart
can come true, but that day turned into
more, and before I could know
how my dull life would go
you found me
in my despair
and you told me
I could hope
and you taught me by lead
that something lost can be found
once again.
