2006-03-01
my memoir
i was feeling incredibly unlikeable for a while there so i decided to type this up to remind me some of the things i like about myself.
to hell with the rest of the world, which intrinsically includes you.
o, i wish to write so free!
she cires to herself with rigor
of a regal majesty.
to sagely suppose, to prudently figure!
she sees as though through a glass
clear, brimmed full, beholding the lass.
the trees! the trumpets, and the steeple!
grandness and rosy reality abound.
see there the sidewalk cracks, the wise old people!
oh, and the vast sky; how profound.
the writtern word, a flickering ribbon of flow
pattering lightly across existence
she grasps and reaches so elusively so
to capture the ephemeral essence.
give me my liberty! my jest free of imitation!
this word is mine, with earnestness she speaks
savoring a food for thought and relation.
there are wallowers in timbuktu
the mourning dutch and weeping greeks,
some cry softly to listening london
and are chewing vegetables like leeks.
talk and words are cheap
so without price or cost
she marches onward, fitzgerald beneath her feet
and with whitman, dickinson, and frost.
the step is a gallop, keen and elite
yet in her sentences she sputters.
give me my superfluous-ity, free of concession!
in sad replies she mutters
as the grand tide slips back in recession.
"no, come back!" she's sad in the eyes,
as the purpose leaves her
and the grandiose-ity dies.
she joins the wailers of the world
in a vortex of mediocrity
simply a pretentious girl
shrugging with profundity.
"o austen, o shelley, i shan't join thee?"
then she laughs at herself
and goes to climb a tree
to swing the birches as frost supposed
or to perhaps go where the red fern grows.
"have i no place in a library
besides as a reader of pages?
cannot my name also be scrawled
as a fantastic writer of ages?"
she tumbles outdoors once more, again
to marvel at the nature of life
and picks up her feet in a skip
whim-ing upon love, loss, and strife.
we live, says she, in a pompous voice
with the people and places we are
each decision a separate choice
to draw us near and far.
she's no philosopher; this she knows
and never claims to be
but with all the words, her wonder grows
and she's amazed at all to see.
everything! she grandly spouts
waving her arms with glee.
the world is a playground, an easy rhyme,
an enduring mystery!
and so her name is written
upon the pages of a memoir:
"myself, i'll remember me
as a writer, grand for all."
leesah-likes at 9:15 p.m.