It Feels Great
A Poem by John O’Callaghan
"Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.
Can you blame me if I’ve learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?”
These lines, from the poem “A…
Who are three people- dead or alive- you’d love to have dinner with? I’ve known my answer for awhile now:
1. JK Rowling
2. Donald Glover
3. Weldon Kees
And they say we have monsters inside us all but I think yours just is a clever mask
Did you think of that?
Did you think of that?
Did you think of me-
On the nights you drew the mists home
Around the corners where you locked your doors.
You took me there once.
And locked doors.
I’m tucked away
Tobacco in blessed curled paper.
I remember when that was new
And it burned.
There’s a coat of it on my throat now
I haven’t tasted raw in so damn long
Blunt and centered
And pass the lighter.
My recent struggles with sleep are a curse and a blessing. A curse, because I constantly feel like I’m running on empty, and that makes me anxious. A blessing, because despite my overwhelming amount of coursework I manage to find time to work on some poetry.
I haven’t posted any of them yet because I’m experimenting with how they flow out loud. But it feels good to get ease back into poetry a bit.
I’m not a big fan of actually reading my poetry to other people. That’s why I like the Internet, haha. I feel very, very uncomfortable when people read my writing in my presence. It’s like being naked. Actually, I think it’s worse than being naked. It’s like being emotionally naked.
I do a lot of public speaking, so that part doesn’t bother me at all. I just have a fear of exposing that shy, sensitive part of myself that leads me to write.
It’s not for another week and my stomach is already in knots.
I think it’s pretty neat, if you ask me.
The link is in the sidebar, or just click here.
I love it. It’s very, very intense. I love reading Harlem Renaissance type stuff.
If you’re into stories and poetry about race and the south with a modernist twist, I would definitely recommend it.
You change. Your eyes turn thermal. Your skin provokes. Your shoulders roll back like those oars F. Scott Fitzgerald finally settled on. I hold on to your neck like creation.
We forget to watch our backs sometimes. Right now, I feel yours clouding over. And I can just string together the words “tell me a lie.”