Saturday, March 2, 2013

Can There Be Any Place Worse Than Earth?

The Arts - Poetry

Didn't know she wrote poetry. She is a talented musician (just a few months away from graduating high school) - plays several musical instrument. But poetry!? I had absolutely no clue. Well, I used to see her writing in her diary when she was younger, but I thought that she was simply recording the highlights of her day - her disappointments, her challenges, her triumphs. You know, the usual stuff. But poetry!? And then out of the blue she emails me a few of her poems saying, "Daddy, I wrote these about four years ago. Idk if I ever showed them to you LOL. This is just the stuff I write. Let me know what you think." I was so excited, I had to read them right away. Permit me to share one of her poems with you. (Of course I got her permission!  :-)

Places Worse Than Earth
Kara Couchman
what kind of inspiration does it take for me
to write something magnificent?
searching for a masterpiece within my head
and all I can find are sketches.
what could have been _
what should have been _
what never was_
and I begin to wonder what my life is worth…

if my life is like a dream, I’m living a beautiful nightmare.
disgust and grotesque combined in one,
to make this putrid life of mine
a dumpster of a life—
step into my world and face the stench of depression;
broken hearts on the ground – some trampled, some sliced up.
starvation shapes the slender trees – dying and wilting away slowly.
razors create the streets – across the way and down the valleys.
rivers made of silent tears – take a swim, the tears mean nothing,
and the darkest sky one could ever imagine.

created in me was a heart of stone;
and now that I reconsider, it makes sense
why people are unable to love me.
even I could not imagine myself loving a rock.
God loves everything He created, or so He says—
and when He picks up the rock and realizes it is not straight, but crooked,
He secludes it and throws it down beneath his foot, beneath the earth,
and leaves it there to rot…

this is where my heart will be,
rotting with Hell and its slaves,
rotting next to the serpent with the magical fruit,
decaying, yet still living.
if this is what He wants, why not do it now?
why not do it myself?

what kind of idea does it take for me
to write something magnificent?
perhaps some music for sedation—
perhaps my lack of inspiration—.

[Photogrphic Art by Ric Couchman]

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