Why Am I Not Tempestuous?


Why am I not tempestuous
Why do I not want a great love
a thing of vicious beauty and passions stirring at every clocktick
drenched with honey and stinging ants
and a crazy boat ride over crashing waves
constant up constant letdown
is it just lethargy
am I nothing but a somnolent lizard in the sun
we are told to pursue want it all get it all
plunge your hands into that well and grab and drag up every feeling like a dripping hand full
of fleshy pondplants
wring the juice from them and toss them aside
and plunge again
I should not want quiet
I should long for tumult and tears dashed from tortured eyes
and screaming
and vases breaking
the burning of letters
and the subsequent re-writing
I can’t won’t live without you my darling mine
the bitterest of breakups and all accompanying publicity
the more vituperative the more successful
and yet I don’t care
and I don’t care
is it ennui
just tiredness
or is this evidence of another piece missing from my psyche
I just want to be left alone
and let the tempest pass me by…




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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