The Water is Cold

The incredible agony of having a poem right on the end of your tongue but not being able to write it. Everything feels like a stupid cliche. I have to stop writing about this. But I feel like it still hasn't completely vocalized itself. Something has been left unsaid, even if it's, "I feel like an idiot." I have to think of a good, poetic way to say that. So I'm sitting in the room I grew up in, in the house I moved back into. Supposedly the "most haunted house in Harrisburg." I had plenty of spooky experiences in here growing up. Shadows moving that I saw from the corner of my eye, electronic toys talking in the middle of the night, waking up to someone saying my name-- and plenty more, but I feel like this is where I need to be right now.

Something about this house makes me feel comfortable. Even if I am a little creeped out from time to time. Nothing has really happened since I've been back. I mean, like one or two things that I could explain away easily enough. Except just now, while I'm sitting here on the guest bed in my old bedroom, trying to write this poem, and I swear I saw someone move in my sister's old bedroom, like they walked past the door and I caught the edge of their... dress? I went in there to see if it was Bella, but the room is empty.

At this point I'm just like, whatever, brain, I'm not falling for your cheap tricks. You're expecting to see something, so you're seeing something, and you're getting way off track. You picked this room because of the sun setting and looking like this:

And you're wasting the dying light. Is there a poem here? Maybe, if you can switch subjects after at least four months of beating it to death. And only one of those poems has been published, so what does that tell you? Let it go.

Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. They're probably more like "Dear Diary" poems. Let me whine.

At this point, I look across the room and see this quote:

Kim Addonizio, you know my soul. Can I say it better? Pick a new subject, brain, pick a new subject. People want to hear more about Debra and grandma and love tragically lost or timed wrong. The wrong timing. Is there such a thing, or is it just the difference between cowardice and bravery? Doing what you want or being terrified of what you want.

I am so glad that I am going to Murray tomorrow. Despite the nerves of reading from memory, I'll have a night with good friends and be enveloped by the environment I enjoy the most. Then there's Louisville, where I'm nervous about going alone, but maybe I'll churn out something in the evenings after the conferences. Then, of course, Disney World, where I don't plan on doing any critical thinking past wondering which souvenirs are worth trying to stuff into my bag to bring home. Sorry, computer, you're staying home. And, phone? You're staying in the room. Except for pictures.

Anyway, back to this worthless poem that's never seeing the light of day.