Delusion, Suffocation and The Writer

Delusion
by Summer Owens

The noble chin which held erect
the wrinkling face with faded smile,
like old jeans washed and starched and bleached;

now a thousand memories all removed,
clouded as in sorrow filled eyes
swollen a moment but all you could see

inside a mirror
where reflection hates reality.
Years of use for self annihilation
as you stare back
piercing cold glass to your core.
Your one friend because it cannot disagree,

and find now what you’re looking for
visible only for want of it
this distortion that you love to see.

Suffocation
by Summer Owens
The burrowing worms in the dirt
are like people searching for
smooth green paper.
Now lusted after
to be digested.

Sends corrupted thoughts spewing
now malignant tumors seeping,
infesting innocence.

This culmination of avarice, virulent,
consuming virtue,
an already dying flame.

The Writer
by Summer Owens

Fingers; frozen, sticky, yet burning at the touch,
seeking to slip into a rhythm and a path.
Like cold water beads
slipping down the slopes of a bare chest in summer.

Ideas become a thousand black stains
smudged in pale skin, coating calluses.

Ink, now fading away,
reminder of a dripping emotion.

Like a balloon, bulging with water
this mind is bloated with ideas,
obese with unsettled thoughts,
bound to leak monotone or explode confusion,
If the right vent is not found.

This, the consideration of the writer.

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I was seventeen when I wrote the above poems. In English class we were studying different styles of poetry and our teacher gave us an assignment to compose a poem in similar style to that of Marianne Moore. I obviously wrote more than one because I enjoyed her style so much. Our teacher wasn’t adamant that we follow her style to exactness but thought the feel of the poem was more important.

I wrote Suffocation first but wasn’t too happy with it, even after many edits. Delusion though, that became my pride. I submitted it to poetry.com and was thrilled to find it accepted for publication. I had hit the big time, I was published! My poem was awesome!

Heh…heh…

Yes, you guessed right if you thought it was a Vanity Press sort of site. They wanted me to pay $50.00 for a huge collection of random poetry which included just one of my own. I was sad to discover what a Vanity Press was. I still really love Delusion though. Even though it’s not a very uplifting poem. It was about who I had been and served as a sort of warning for who I could become if I kept letting the self hatred gnaw away at me.

Then I wrote The Writer. It’s pretty self explanatory and still adequately conveys how I feel when I sit down to write.