:: Tuesday, December 03, 2002 ::

Poem

I'm feeling frustrated. I started both of my journals as writing exercises... not important in themselves really, but methods to trigger other types of writing. Unfortunately, now I just write endlessly about unimportant things and get nothing accomplished. I feel like I've gotten to a point that I'm afraid to write something bad, so I just don't write anything at all.

Oh well. I'm going to try tonight. Write bad bad things until something good comes out of it. Or not. Whatever. Just write Katy. Just write.

In the meantime, I'm going to post an old poem. It's pretty much the only old one I still like, and for this reason, I'm sure all of you that actually read this journal have read this poem before. But it's my journal. Ha!



a round stone

as children we played
mischievously beneath the burning sun
and with wonderment we searched
for a perfect round stone.
the tide chased playfully,
enveloping each pebble and tasting it
curiously,
before sacrificing it
to our critical inspection.

the salt clung to our hair;
the warm scent of youth
embracing the sticky, gold-flecked strands.
the sun licked its searing tongue
over our backs
and sharp rocks bit into our feet,
yet that perfect round stone
eluded us.

the sun faded
behind the staid and stoic mountains
and our only souvenir
was the sand between our toes.

(listening to: John Mayer - Your Body is a Wonderland)

:: Katy 6:41 p.m. [+] :: ::