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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

 

untitled attempt at expressing worries ONE ("security blanket")

physical presence means something
and so do doors and windows,
no one asks 'are these opening or closing'
for each of us they are opened or closed, our minds
are not wide enough to see two sides
of a three-dimensional object or how

you can be here without
your breath, without
your eyes and skin. your smell
can linger on fabric and you can
settle into me as though my heart
were made of blankets

yet physical presence means something
and when your body is not in the room
doors and windows close, my mind
wants for air and everything.

these are the feelings i am afraid of.
it is good to shut my eyes and breathe.

breathing is like taking these blankets
and tossing them into the air to land
softly on this bed, waiting for us


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