Stream of Consciousness 2

Another experiment. In my Writing for Solo Performance class, we just wrote the first things we came up with in order to later write a poem.

My earth needs more spark, and cursive, and God, and sharpened pencils, and watches, and kisses, and falls. Fall for me. On the fall. Scribble scribble scribble what can I get typical reasonable no punctuation no structure no fear but there is fear what yes how because why? Construct. Yellow construct covered in old cheese and technicolor sprinkles, reruns of Girlfriends, Friends, Modern Family, comma splices, synonyms, paper, paper people in paper towns. Jesus, poetry, sports, liking art more than sports and being unfit because of it. Consciousness. Unconsciousness. Love. So vague, yet so meaningful. No erasing no TV no YouTube mispelling grammar mistakes no plot graphs or lines or other charts. Nonsense. Madness. Release. How? Freedom ain’t always free. Rings. Purity rings. My three rings comfy shoes strangling feet to be wanted and held during the day since they’re always tossed to the side at night. Clicking, ticking, screaming, Jesus, Holy Spirit, God, hands, eyes, hair. What the heck is good hair?! I don’t want to stop. Tell me to stop.

Below is the poem that came out of the chaos above I titled “My Three Rings”:

Two on my right and one on my left.

I have my own holy trinity to prepare me daily.

I have tan lines on display that can be read

Between the lines of my past and present through

Virginity, class, and mood.

They hug so tight to my fingers

During the day.

Are they hurt when they’re tossed upon a dresser

Or a desk at night?

Do they understand that I don’t want them

Trapped in screaming sheets

Or reruns of the storm in my head

That makes me toss and turn?

They make my mattress rumble in either misery,

Exhaustion, or anticipation.

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