"A poem is never finished. It is only abandoned"

Words you have to read with sound, hear out loud, see float and just hang in the air like fog.

I recently ran into Spoken Poetry on youtube by a friend and I am in love with it. I've just been addicted to hearing people tell me their stories through rhymes and rhythms, and comparisons i could have never even DREAMED of using.

Gravestones to Teeth, Anesthesia as the gas we breath living in suburbia telling us everything's okay. A soldier to a little girl with a plastic bucket. The things people go through, the joys and pains you see revealed by a simple gesture worth 10 words plus. Then another gesture to explain the next 10 words.

Spoken Poetry is soooooo amazing. I wish one day to be able to spit out the things I've been through, paint it on to a piece of paper and be able to touch someone far from where i am at the moment. That as soon as i reach them i quickly become a part of their past and slowly a part of their memories. So someday they can tell someone else, about that great somebody they heard tell them about their story, and the story will forever be told.

Today I asked 2 different people to write a poem with me. One. Very funny. The other, the complete opposite. I started one, and the other one I followed. I did what any writer would do. Feed off the beginning. She started and i followed. I started and she followed. The following are 2 completely different poems. One about a Man leaving someone behind unnoticed, the other. About. Shoes.

(I wrote the blue lines. Black is my friend.)

SHOES
Left and right. Left and right. is all they know.
They sometimes run, sometimes skip, always on the go.
Unknowing, like hands fumbling in the dark.
Going where led, stopping where parked.
Obedient as a well trained dog, frantic like a baby on a log.
Some will be shiny, others will not, some may be tiny, others a Lot!
Shoes, shoes, the things i strap to my feet.
Shoes, shoes, they really are quite neat!


JUST THERE
At the family Christmas party and your standing there, just standing. Water dripping down ever so slightly on your cheeks, sniffles and coughs, beating and bouncing around the room like a percussionist's audition. Hands shaking as if there was an earthquake.. feet wet. Staring off into space, wondering if I will ever find my way back into reality, into the screaming, into the laughing, into the distraught and lonely, into the love and heart aches only to see how it hurts me. Help. Help me. I'm stuck. They through the shovel out, I'm stuck in this hole all by myself no one can hear my cry's for help.. I sit and watch as the shadows of happiness and joy cross over my face like ants on a picnic blanket. Knees tucked in, head bent down alone sitting, tears streaming.. I can't control my thoughts. I think things I know I shouldn't. He doesn't care. Or does he? Does he really see me? Does he see me now? Am i making you proud?! ... He sees me.. Alone here, sitting. Watching my minds cogs tick, and twork as i make a decision all on my own, as a child stumbles and falls from the lessons you've learned, He doesn't care. He's moved on to the next one. He hasn't called in weeks. Maybe even months.. he doesn't see the stress beyond my smile.. if.. if.. I even smile. Sometimes its dependable.. on you, but you don't seem to care really.. obviously I'm not. Okay. I see where this is going. Where this is coming from. And its not something that is easy to go through. Not something that can be fixed over night, not something that can be trimmed off the edges and swept away.


And that's where it ended.. But do you see how words can portray completely different stories, pictures, scenes. All SO different. I'm not taking this last one personally, it didn't meant anything to me, i just simply fed off of her. My dear friend. Who goes through a lot of hard things and she's only just "a young lass", a young women. Things that shouldn't be shown to such a girl, such a girl with pure innocence. And it pains me to read the things she wrote and to try and pick things up for her to up the end, but it just sucks to be on the listening end sometimes.

Listening to someone express their feelings, and thoughts. Their perception on all the same things I've seen and heard is ... both trembling, and interesting.

Anyways. Hope this wasn't a downer of a entry...

Sometimes its hard to be the listener, and have no one listen to you. It's the hard part of being the listener.

Hmm... The Listener... sounds like the makings of something new..


Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette
Stay True, Stay You.