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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

 

edit

children's poem

something in the earth is weary, like my heart

something in the heart is buried, in the dark

and someone in the dark is trying to sleep,

desperately conjuring images of sheep.

but suddenly--

bruce willis explains it at the end of the movie

and it is not tom cruise who has been trying to murder you.

something is in the bed, full of flowers

your mother's in the shower, strangling april showers

someone has lost a ring playing cards

it's under a bush, in the northwest corner of the yard.

the background noise

is the radio subtly promoting the television

and the television subtly promoting the war on democrats.

someone inside is reading aloud roald dahl

someone outisde is attempting booty call

something really is wrong in the house

it doesn't have enough windows.

the plants are stunted under flourescent light

and the surprise dinner tomorrow is SpaghettiOs.

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