Several years ago I attempted to write a poem when I was a little depressed. This is what I came up with. "Ode to a lover" O Death your are such a fine tease. A lust and temptation, sure to please. An elusive woman, scantily clad. Just out of reach, you can't be had. I've seen you around so much before, But not had the courage to stand at your door. I've rung the bell and ran away, Afraid of rejection and utter dismay. One day I will knock loud and long And stand waiting patiently, even if you're not home. We shall meet and have our first dance, Hoping intently it turns to romance. I'll see you donned in satin and lace, See your sleek curves and beautiful face. We'll dance and be merry, how my heart will race, And all will be over with your dear, sweet embrace. In case you didn't notice, my death is female. Or maybe Dale.
I was doing some cleaning the other day and came across some of my old papers. As I was digging through them to find out what was worth keeping and what wasn't I found this. I'm not sure when I wrote it, but it was while I was still in college: I look at my watch and I have four hours to get done everything I need done for the day. They all have to be done today. I know it wont take very long to get it finished, so I decide to read a little of the book I have recently purchased. I sit in my car so that I will have a clock right in front of me and will not get too comfortable. I am just going to read a chapter or two. I start read and immediately I am in a different time, a different place, and even become a different person. I don't have a time limit in the book. I have no pressing matters in the book. Everything in the book has been accomplished, even though I may read about the process of it. The end of the book will come and all endings will be resolved. Some characters may die, some may find romance, some may find tragedy. My reading the book will not determine any of the outcomes. Therefore I can read the book unafraid of the outcome. This is always true even if I don't like the end of the story, the way it comes out, or who dies in the process. The book is utterly unselfish.It requires nothing from me. If I leave it forever unread, it is content. If I read it cover to cover multiple times, it doesn't bother it. If I "dog-ear" a page, it doesn't frown at me or scold me. The book knows only to give. What my book gives me may vary. It may give me hope for a future, for a romance, for a better life. It may give me sorrow for a character, pity for a character, pity for a lost love, or anger at a betrayed friendship. It could also just give me a headache. So I sit in my car and take what is given from the book. I feel contempt, contentment, fear, hope, jealousy, anger, and love. I get absorbed by the absoluteness of it. I wonder at the mystery of a million little letters that come together to make it happen. I read. The one thing the book doesn't give is a sense of time. I come to the end of a page and the next begins chapter 8. In a frenzy, I look at the clock which was ignored while reading and I have 45 minutes left in which to complete all the tasks assigned. So, with a heavy heart I mark my page and close the book. I quickly exit the car, grab everything that I need, and proceed to hurriedly accomplish what I had given myself so much time to do. As I jog from my car I wish my life were a book. A story that already has a finished ending, but that is just waiting to be read. As it is, my life is just an essay that is continually added to and even sometimes amended, if I tell a story right. I envy that absoluteness of a book. I miss not being able to determine any outcomes that may come about. But mainly I don't like being the author of my own essay. Another one I came across is a little shorter. I had always dreamed of being War and Peace, King Lear, Ivanhoe, the Bible. In truth I was the dime-store novel that couldn't be sold even when on sale. I was always nondescript. Too small to be a great novel, to big to be a short read. I didn't have a prominent author or a big name publishing company. I sat on the shelf collecting dust and turning yellow. Every once in a while I would get picked up. I would always hope that this is the time I don't get put down until all of my pages were rifled through. This is when I get smudged pages from someone holding me wide to absorb all that I had to give them. This is when something I have to offer this person changes their life forever. This is when I get put back on the shelf because my name was misread and I again am besot with loneliness. Books beside me vanish all the time. One book leaves because the author has recently died and people wonder what he had to say when he was alive. Another leaves because it got placed on the best-seller list. Another disappears because it is a classic. I stay on because I am nothing special. My cover is plain and worn. Worn from lack of use and frequent mishandling when being reshelved. Plain from someone's lack of imagination. I hope that you enjoyed this. If not, well sorry. Maybe you'll get better taste for reading material on your birthday.
My heart was skipping beats Head was dizzy and light. Shudders ran up my body When you came in sight. Mouth went dry when I talked to you, Stomach tied in a knot. Sweat poured from my body, Both cold sweat and hot. I talked to my doctor about it And followed his suggestion. "It wasn't love at all," he said, "Only major indigestion." I took my dad to the doctor this afternoon and after spending three hours in the truck waiting on him this is what I came up with. Edit: cause I can't freaking spell.
I wrote this one the same day as "Ode to a Lover". It is a prequel. "A Jilted Friend Life, you are cruel, spiteful, and mean. Of all that you are, that is sure to be seen. You lead me along with hope for a season Then throw me down without giving a reason. My body is battered with all your abuse I try to make sense of it, but it is no use. I wanted so long to be your good friend, Now I'm broken and bleeding, not sure I can mend. Where can I turn, since you shun me away? Without you, how can I enure another day? What's this I see on down the road? A beautiful being, a sight to behold. So Life I am leaving, from you I turn, You can no longer make my heart burn. I never really thought that it was as good as "Ode to a Lover" but still. If anyone has some advice about this one I would be open to it.
