(you've got to start somewhere)

I typically do not post my own poetry on my blog, since some literary magazines count that as it being published...but this one isn't destined for publication (and was not going to be destined for the light-of-day until I grew a little more humble..)

I wrote this when I was very much 19 years old (5 years ago...whoa!). It was one of my first poems and I am sure I was, at one time, very proud of it. this poem (still) exists to remind myself of where I started... I think its good for writers to look back at early work (and not perhaps burn early work) so they can see how much they've grown (or not grown, yikes!)...

and, of course, for laughs.


Ink Poisoning


I draw a heart on my hand
a symbol, not those misshapen and veined,
bleeding things pictured in textbooks.
Ink soaks deep between
index and thumb, palm down
(lifelines are only crossed by to-do lists and stigmata)
One day, I’ll die of ink poisoning.


I draw my heart to my hand.
I feel everything through a magnifying glass.
Emotions generally punch me in the face
Instead of softly tapping me on the shoulder.
I tend to think that every night should
begin with rainstorms,
be hemmed with candlelight,
and closed with a kiss.


I draw my hand to my heart
With time, gentle skin sags,
cells suicide to dust,
dust bursts forth trees,
trees are paper [when chopped and chewed].
We’ll all be scribbled on eventually.


Heart in hand,
I’ll die of ink poisoning.


I think I was too busy letting my emotions punch me in the face to realize how awful this poem was, ha! I can't even get back into my 19-year-old-self's mind and imagine what she was thinking when she wrote this and thought "perfect! done!"?! Though I do remember writing it--in class, after drawing a heart on my hand (drawing a heart on my hand everyday was my high-school habit).

So strange. The people we become. the people we were..

my oh my.