My writing adorns the walls of this
ridiculous, worn-down circus tent. Fitting,
that I’ve mastered both walking the tightrope
and cracking the whip. I jump, through flaming
hoops I set alight. I am the elephant,
the seventh clown stuffed into a clown-car.
A churlish charade. Watch. This is the part where
I shoot down all the tin-cans and pick the
giant plushie, a myth in and of itself.
This is where I both ride and turn the Ferris
Wheel by hand. Here, I am running this show
but no-one’s sitting in the stands. Here, I am
running a pyramid scheme involving
ringmasters and gullible children. Here,
I am running in a hall of mirrors,
constantly colliding with myself.
This is more of a blog for my writing than blogging in the form of writing, so don’t read too deeply into my poetry. I take bits and pieces of inspiration from various things, so even if I write a depressing poem about suicide, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I actually feel that way. I’m fine. I may be over-reading into things, but let me take this chance again to tell you that I appreciate all your support and concern. I count my blessings every day: I am, as ever always, grateful. Words fail to describe my thanks.
^now that’s a blog post.
regarding this piece, I’m not very proud of this piece but I’ve been dying to do this whole self-run circus image for ages. I love absurd dystopian images. Something about a run-down circus just screams POETRY to me, although I guess usually it’d be more about SCREAMING.