This Strange Place


It’s a strange place, 

that louring sky and expansive sand swept landscape

 inside my head.

Where no one sits and sings, 

or bakes cakes,

or watches leaves turn colors,

or laughs.

Where nothing ever changes and no one ever wins…

no one plays at all.

A space kept blank and bland

with no moving parts or beating heart,

no favorite candy bar,

no late night thoughts.

It should be a clean place,

it should be,

but instead it’s greasy to the touch,

and rough on the lungs

 like breathing steel filings.

And it’s no wonder 

that no one wants to live here,

but the more I try to avoid it,

the fuller and more clamorous it gets.

And I have been cast,

by myself,

in the part of constant smoother

and placator,

to save anyone else

the rasp and sting 

of this strange place…




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. 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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2 Responses to This Strange Place

  1. Oh, that hits a chord. It’s exactly what one of my daughters was telling me about herself. Poor kid. To feel she has such a crushing burden to carry!

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