Accusations and Defense
I am not who you
Said I was
I am weak
But you knew that
And instead of letting
me grow like the bark
around a tree
You snapped me while
I was a twig
And when the leaves
Finally fell
Tears stung my face
And chopped like an ax
While you said good bye
You hoped we could- but My hope was crushed
and hacked away
The anticipation was
Perhaps the reason
I never brought it up
Until we ran out of
Things to say
That was when you
Trod over me and I split
Down the middle
But you didn’t, no
You didn’t
Miss my heart
Crack! went that twig
I am broken
I will never grow
(c) Caitlin C.
dreams made of I wish I knew what
This is a strange poem... basically a compilation of really strange dreams that I somehow remembered enough to write down. Here it is.
they speak
in waterlogged
whispers, squeezing
tightly, stubborn
syndications
stand
reciting words of
spite in rhythm
skim lattes
hot breath
cracking ridges
with no bones
finally a happy member
recalls my psychotic
creeping, closer to
the end
and
the morning spits in my eyes
to clutch with
force perverse
happiness
left to scour a
melting pot
so full
of fish
that
they’re right
and left
alone
(c) Caitlin C.
they speak
in waterlogged
whispers, squeezing
tightly, stubborn
syndications
stand
reciting words of
spite in rhythm
skim lattes
hot breath
cracking ridges
with no bones
finally a happy member
recalls my psychotic
creeping, closer to
the end
and
the morning spits in my eyes
to clutch with
force perverse
happiness
left to scour a
melting pot
so full
of fish
that
they’re right
and left
alone
(c) Caitlin C.
revolutions on the dance floor
just when I’ve
finally let a gasp of air
escape, the claws of
your soul
scratched me with a smile
buried within acid
marching men
my heart is filled with
curved corners
retching in
delight, and miserably
blinking over my
confirmation candle
a swerving getaway that led
to the confinement of that air,
that whisp of wind and air
now enclosed and remembering
the faint essence
your weakling smile
that melts me
my downfall
like a moth that burns
over a heinous flame
(c) Caitlin C.
Elm Tree Statistics
Four letters were
Carved into the trunk of the elm
A scraggly, narrow heart
Closed around them like a cupped palm
Other calligraphy seems to blossom
When the sun
Shines on the page
And soaks in each teardrop
Of rain
I slam the weeping door,
Barefoot walk across
The grass
To the trunk of the elm
Until the old promise seems
Like a statistic
When a couple became a crowd
When the letters spread
Into a page
(c) Caitlin C.
Carved into the trunk of the elm
A scraggly, narrow heart
Closed around them like a cupped palm
Other calligraphy seems to blossom
When the sun
Shines on the page
And soaks in each teardrop
Of rain
I slam the weeping door,
Barefoot walk across
The grass
To the trunk of the elm
Until the old promise seems
Like a statistic
When a couple became a crowd
When the letters spread
Into a page
(c) Caitlin C.
Algebra II
This has nothing to do with Algebra, although it does have to do with my Algebra class. I was incredibly bored today- too bored to focus on applying properties of roots with rational exponents, and yet somehow focused enough to write a rather random poem.
Make room for Jesus!
An excess of styrofoam
whitewashed and
frantic
crazed students with
lonely eyes scribble and
tear papers
due in
five minutes
shaking as they’re passed
hand to hand
information to scarf and forget
Hey,
Did you
hear?
A venomous intermission
They were grinding
at a church
dance
Not surprised
heads roll back to cram
Unused dishrooms
hide them-
with one eye
drifting
towards the
other side
(c) Caitlin C.
Make room for Jesus!
An excess of styrofoam
whitewashed and
frantic
crazed students with
lonely eyes scribble and
tear papers
due in
five minutes
shaking as they’re passed
hand to hand
information to scarf and forget
Hey,
Did you
hear?
A venomous intermission
They were grinding
at a church
dance
Not surprised
heads roll back to cram
Unused dishrooms
hide them-
with one eye
drifting
towards the
other side
(c) Caitlin C.
Anyone interested in sending me some poetry?
Hey, people- if any of you are thinking you want to send me some poetry I would love to read it and post it. The email you should send it to is csquaredpoems@yahoo.com with the poems pasted into the main body of the email.
Great!
~Caitlin C.
Great!
~Caitlin C.
The janitor is eavesdropping
It's always interesting for me to write a poem and not really know where I'm going with it. Sometimes I'll think I have this brilliant idea, and then when I write it down it sounds like shit. Poems like this one are cool to look back on and think about what it meant to me when I wrote it and what it means to me now. It can be completely different. Hopefully you'll find some meaning in it.
I told you a story
There were sharp corners
dark hallways
And scuffed vans
battles turn to blisters
white eyes bleed red
forgive me
just listen
Now thousands of seconds
I can count them all
The lights have gone out
I stay and wait
tables turned
feet cocked high on a stool
pound down the stairs
I’ve been here for hours
losing track of the hours
paperback
Money’s expense
dreams I feared to lose
you don’t need anyone
They need me that way
I can’t finish without knowing
what it all means
I can’t finish
So I’ve
been counting
the hours
(c) Caitlin C.
I am to him what McDonalds is to her
Before you read this poem, you should just know what it's about, because I'd like the readers to know. Generally I enjoy chuckling to myself as you all fumble with the underlying meaning of my poems, but this one merits some explanation. I just renamed this poem "I am to him what McDonalds is to her" because 1) I think it's a more interesting title, and 2) I fooled you, the title doesn't mean what you think it does. Unfortunately for you, McDonalds is not a restaurant. Rather, he is not a restaurant *nudge nudge*. Anyways, if I don't shut up soon someone is likely to pop up and ninja-kick me, so without further ado, here's the poem. Have fun with that!
I am to him what McDonalds is to her
It all gets to me
and seems a little
condescending
forgive me for
my presumptions
I call ‘em
like
I see ‘em
you put up a
wall of
defense like
a master of the
dojo
spontaneity confuses
all the
watching
eyes
and they glare
with each
shrug
of reaction
and each bead
of stubborn perspiration
but still
it gets to me
you seem to
have this
planned
I
mean
to
find
out
(c) Caitlin C.
I am to him what McDonalds is to her
It all gets to me
and seems a little
condescending
forgive me for
my presumptions
I call ‘em
like
I see ‘em
you put up a
wall of
defense like
a master of the
dojo
spontaneity confuses
all the
watching
eyes
and they glare
with each
shrug
of reaction
and each bead
of stubborn perspiration
but still
it gets to me
you seem to
have this
planned
I
mean
to
find
out
(c) Caitlin C.
To My Friend
An incestuous shine in the white of your eye
The barefaced manifesto takes place
Before it begins
Without reflection
Hasty lies travel to an ear
And what I hear isn’t pretty
Waiting for praise like a sad dog
Thought, though it doesn’t occur much, rids
A bitch of purpose
To ruin a conversation
An affiliation
An association, or relationship
Peeling it away like chips in the gutter
Burnt like crumbled sparks
Pieces of bark in the flickering flames
And yet a puppy is so innocent,
So complacent that another
Nearly as smug never existed
(c) Caitlin C., 2007
Swans are nice; however I prefer ugly ducklings
You see her weep
hanging onto that black swinging note
the crest toppling beneath the lines
her hunched shoulders
those raspy noises
She cries for her own selfish reasons
Torn up beatniks ramble on
And they all say they love her
but she’s like
a ghost that wants
to go home
Registers and a
Corelli trade off
tired of feeling a pin prick
like a useless sense of pain
Sweeping fermata, nightlong
All the world waited for her as
she played that
last minor scale
they pause to reflect on
her effervescent beauty, her
shaking fists
fingers hobbling on a cold clarinet
a crying soul with
no place- barely even an
ear to borrow
hanging onto that black swinging note
the crest toppling beneath the lines
her hunched shoulders
those raspy noises
She cries for her own selfish reasons
Torn up beatniks ramble on
And they all say they love her
but she’s like
a ghost that wants
to go home
Registers and a
Corelli trade off
tired of feeling a pin prick
like a useless sense of pain
Sweeping fermata, nightlong
All the world waited for her as
she played that
last minor scale
they pause to reflect on
her effervescent beauty, her
shaking fists
fingers hobbling on a cold clarinet
a crying soul with
no place- barely even an
ear to borrow
First Blog Post- hope this works!
Why hello there, whoever happens to be reading this! I'm C^2, and this is basically where I'm planning to paste some of my poems. I'm a young poet, and I've recently been published at a few places including: The Cerebral Catalyst, Thick With Conviction, Chantarelle's Notebook, and I think like two more places but I'm drawing a blank. Anyways that's basically all I can think of right now so there we go! First blog post- woo hoo!
~C^2
~C^2
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