For Brian, who deals with my sickness (in whatever form it takes)...
Moist wads of toilet paper
litter the wood-paneled floors
can't afford Kleenex
Tiny plastic pods hastily opened
to release the so-you-can-rest medicine
new accessories to every flat surface
Skin rubbed raw by Charmin
burning with the slow drip of dislodged congestion
Day-time means eyes smothered by tiny shards of glass
too proud to wear the thick plastic frames reserved for the safety of home
Fever won't break
And still, the worst of it is not being able to smell you in the morning.
Yesterday afternoon was dedicated to a writing workshop hosted by Deja Earley Ruddick and Lisa Van Orman Hadley.
I have never really written, per se... all my projects come out of the editing process. I never start with a blank page (or blank Pro Tools session, to be more accurate). Instead, I start with a big chunk of sound and chop away at it until the beauty hidden within appears. As I said in the workshop, my only experience with writing, as it is most commonly understood, is sad adolescent attempts at writing lyrics (to make use of my singing voice and emo heart)... everything terrible and full of cliché.
At the end of the workshop, we were challenged to write a poem. To not worry about it being terrible or full of cliché. To just write. And then share this initial attempt with everyone present, of course. I ended up with what you see above, with a couple edits (one suggested by Deja; thank you, ma'am).
THE SUNDAY SOUND: February 3, My first foray into poetry: the audible version.
For those following along in an RSS reader, click through to the original post to hear today's piece.