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
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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
incorrect insecure feminine thought loop
I keep being mistaken
for someone
with more than
purpose. follow-
through, breathing out
and not just in
love. you tell me
listening
is different than what I'm doing. Listening
is something I need to learn like
other social skills: don't think
too much about it. Unfortunately my head
thinks a lot of myself.
example. I pass
people who consider themselves
and I consider them
friends;
I am wearing a bathing suit.
They say, Enjoy swimming!
I say, startled, I need
to clean. Is consideration like listening?
Is consideration not explaining my madness?
Is that my largest expression of love, can it
be even
when it is my default response
to fear? Yes. The difference is
in what I want to say
to you: everything, and if
I can hold my tongue maybe
I can hold you
female concerns
I'm in the big body, but
there are no classes with
low-quality 1980s video
to show me how to sever
the drawstring up
inside my body
(someone is supposed to pull
it and I'll "orgasm," my heart
will be pulled out and
I'll make a noise)
from my emotions, which
are wound
like a spool of thread, which
looks neat --
yet turn it over in your hands:
turn it, keep looking
for the end! I worry I'm wrapped
up in myself. I want
the art of solitude
is noisy at times,
the sound of moving
furniture, an unexpected
piece of glassware
tinging under your touch.
the television never
seems loud enough
to hear - if moving
from room to room, those
scripted voices
must follow, lest your mind
start speaking
to fill the space
of where your company was
Archives
January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 August 2005 December 2005 January 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 July 2006 August 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 September 2007 June 2011 July 2011 October 2012 November 2012 December 2012 January 2013 February 2013 March 2013 April 2013 May 2013 June 2013 July 2013 September 2013 October 2013 November 2013 March 2014 April 2014 May 2014 June 2014 July 2014 August 2014 September 2014 October 2014 December 2014 March 2015 July 2017 August 2017 September 2017 October 2017 February 2021 December 2022
Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
