My mind races with nonsense parables and rhymes. I haven’t got the time to hang it up clear it. I’m tripping but there’s no acid to speak of. I miss the innocence I once knew. Eyes that look through windows of ripe cherries not yet bruised. I want to get all the goodness from the ocean, the sky, but instead I keep listening to widowed thoughts telling me I’m vapid or wrinkled or wasting my time. Me and the lonely moon are singing each other’s high crimes again tonight. I’ve wasted yet another love, trying hard to make him mine or perfect or something. But I keep failing and so I get into a cold bed with just my fantasies and I’m so fucking bored. What happened? Did I let all those needled scavengers rape me dry of my humility? You see I love myself too much and really I am nothing at all. I walk around like I don’t have a care but truly I am scared. I tried to call my mother and tell her she better not waste her tears on me anymore but I was too late. She’s shriveled. Just like an Edvard Munch painting I want to scream like that. No you have a nice day, mine is already filled with too much honesty. Trying to sort through all these filthy lines and everyone keeps calling me to ask me how I am and I tell them I’m so great, super, I just need to be saved. And they hang up on me. I guess I better work on saving myself.
This Is A Long Poem
This is a long poem It will be passed over But the flow of my hand And my chestnut thoughts Overwhelm me so I go and go Letting blue ink stream wonderfully I sit and the gush of everything Comes like a full orgasm It surely is not a great group of words Maybe only average at best It surely will not get printed Maybe even tossed. This is a long poem Not even fit to read really Seldom should anyone care about the outcome But I’m up all night For this pedestrian poem I lose sleep Many minutes of loss But long poems are worth it Phone keeps ringing The baby is crying My soul begs me to give up But I go on and on. This is a long poem The throbbing of my hand The crinkling of my fingers It’s working It’s haunting It’s mature Short poems are dull To be a true love of this verse It must be sweeping And the opposite of puny It’s giving me clarity It has a barrel of hope. This is a long poem It stirs such uncertainty But I feel a sense of humanity With every crooked prose I still go Not everyone can do this you know A cryptic passage to let you know I’m alive And I wonder when it will stop Do you think now? Why are you still reading this? Have I made a mockery of this art we call “ode”.
Maria Marrocchino is a writer and producer living in Manhattan. She has lived in Manhattan for over 15 years and has been writing since the age of 13. Her poetry has appeared in Clockwise Cat, Broad, Belleville Park Pages, SNR Review, Main Street Rag and PDXX Collection. Her stories have appeared in The Sun for “Readers Write” and her travel stories can be found in Independent Traveler. Maria is a features writer for Dazed & Confused, Platinum, Nylon and City magazines. She has also published a book of poetry, Winged Victory: Transcending Breast Cancer.