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Why I Am Not A Painter

            A l l   C o n t e n t     ©2005-2021           E m i l i e  H a n s o n            e-mail             twitter                Minneapolis, MN               links & archives

            a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry

            on the internet
            in the hopes of creating something better

            This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
            Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.

            You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
            comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
            Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.

            Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
            I am aware that that can be unsettling
            but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
            maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
            there is never a clear picture of reality

 

better than expected

my roommate writes a poem
i wish i have written, this thing
like a tiny angel tracing
circles on my brain, punch here

the idea is in front of me
wearing a pink dress under
a v-neck sweater; she is fixing
her hair by a brightly lit window

the tiny people do not exist, i know
because i can run my hands through them
as they pick up my tactile thoughts
and run into the mouse-hole

my roommate writes a story
which i am not allowed to read.
she tries on a green sweater with patches
at the elbows and a thread there

i can pretend this face
into a photomosaic of your faces
making faces at me, drawing
circles on my face

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