People might find it surprising that I write (bad) poetry. I myself am surprised. It’s not really something I ever decided to do.
Poetry is a side of my brain that that I didn’t even know I had until I became an adult. It kind of frightens and amazes me whenever it decides to show itself. In many ways it feels more primal and wild than prose—in spite of it technically being the more structured form. It flows from deeper within my unconscious, and I can’t really control when it decides to come out.
Maybe that’s what’s frightening. I don’t feel like I control it, yet I know it represents me. I feel like I’m staring at a stranger when I write poetry.
The gestation period for this poem was only a day or two. It started with the mental picture that my mind is overpopulated with poor quality tenants like YouTube personalities and celebrities. Then, the other day in the shower, mental contractions started, and I spent the next hour birthing it onto the page.
After that marvelous mental image, enjoy.
My Mind Was a Forest
My mind was a forest, dark and deep
Filled with deer and hare, but it was lonely there
So I created a path by tearing up grass
‘Til friends could wander, and I was lonely no longer
My mind was a meadow, calm and serine
Filled with sunshine and breeze, for there weren’t any trees
I would take off my cap and lay down for a nap
In the dark I woke to toad and frog croak
My mind was a garden, luscious and full
Filled with veggie and flower and other plant power
But I let one weed in, which is hardly a sin
From that one came a pair, and they multiplied there
My mind was a house, cozy and warm
Filled with the things that civilization brings
Books and food to lift my mood
When feeling ill or paying a bill
My mind was a road, empty and bare
Filled with rocks and dust—good shoes were a must
I shouldered my pack, and with the wind at my back
Set off towards the line where the hills meet the sky
Now my mind is a city, busy and crowded
Filled with numbers and noise, tinkers and toys
Gone is the day when I can play
Most of my time is not even mine
And all I want is that forest dark
The meadow calm
The garden full
The house warm
Even the road bare, but none lead there.
It could definitely use a lot of tightening up, but it captured what I was feeling at the time. What does it say to you? Do you ever come up with spontaneous poetry that probably shouldn’t be posted to the internet?