This is not a poem… again

In the tradition of my previous This is not a poem, This is not a poem… again.

The last few posts have been more Emotional than creative. This too is not very different.

I promise to write something interesting and with a  lot more creativity when I get better.

But till then, here’s my not-so-poetic poem about a lost loved one. As usual, it’s more self therapy than art….

A MURTHERFUCKER CUT DOWN MY TREE

Every night, sure as sunrise,
from a distance far, I see you rise.
Tonight I looked, overtaken by surprise,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Your body, wood and curvy,
from a distace far, it looks lovely.
From your neck, it rose thinly,
to the top, forming your head magically.
I still don’t understand why, logically,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

You’ve always wanted to say something,
from a distance far, a greeting?
I should have listened, a warning?
Or was it goodbye you were waving?
O old friend, now I’m crying,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Every night, sure as sunrise,
from a distance far, I see you rise.
Tonight I looked, overtaken by surprise,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Notes: In the playground, there’s this magical tree in the distance. It has thick black bushes and thin long branches. Because I only go there at night, from a distancce, you don’t see the braches, only a couple of bushes floating in the air. It was magical and beautiful, up until some asshole brought a bulldozer and killed it. I miss my tree, too bad we never really got to know each other…

My Demons

In a place far away from life, the night was very dark. The moon was trying so hard to shine, but the big black clouds did an excellent job at making sure that didn’t happen. No one was even talking about the twinkle little stars, because they were nowhere in sight.

There was silence in the night, not dead silence; A family of frogs were croaking and a couple of crickets were making noises, not because they had to, but because they wanted to live up to a stereotype. Goddamn crickets! Anyway apart from that, it was quiet; total silence.

The grass was soft and moist from the drizzle of earlier that night. The slides & see-saws were wet; the monkey bars were dripping; but it was the swings that were the point of interest. One of the swings in particular – the one I was on.

It was 12 Midnight and there I was on a swing in a dark, creepy kids playground far away from any form of life, why?

Moments before that, I was in the comfort of my room, for lack of a better word, chilling.

So what makes a good moment bad?

For some reason, out of the blue, I asked myself where I see myself in five years, like I was on a fucking job interview. And when I couldn’t give myself a decent answer, I freaked the hell out.

There’s this theory that I didn’t play on the swing enough as a kid, and that is why I love the swing so much. I don’t know the degree of truth to that story. What I know though is that there is no place in the world I’d rather sit and think, than this particular dark creepy playground in the late hours of the night, almost bordering on early morning. And my seat of choice is always the swing.

That was why I was on the swing.

Have you ever heard of The Stamford Prison Experiment?

In 1971 a crazy psychologist, not very much unlike the rest of them, decided out of the blue to get 70 students and psycho-analyze them. He selected the 24 he thought were most stable, and with a coin-toss, divided them into two groups, the prisoners and the guards.

The idea was that they will be monitored and observed for the experiment as they stay in a mock prison for two weeks.

Six days later, the experiment was shutdown for getting out of control.

Over the course of those six days, the guards became abusive, the prisoners notorious and all hell broke loose. Mind you, none of these students has ever set foot in a prison cell before, and the only thing they knew about prisons were the things they heard about and saw on TV. Those were the stereotypes they were trying to live up to, and the sad thing was that the fuckers didn’t even know they were doing it… It was all subconscious!

Now why do I care about some lowlifes and an experiment that was conducted back in the 70s?

Because I think maybe, like the noisy crickets and the abusive guards of Stamford, I too am trying to live up to a stereotype – The Artist.

Artists are not exactly the most historically stable group, being that more than a handful of them took their own lives for whatever reasons… and that is what scares the crap out of me!