Sentiment
Poems are just empty attempts.
Too capture some sentiment
That we usually invent, and we haven’t
Felt anything since we were very
Young.
When things were new.
Beautiful and American little boys
Playing cops and robbers on block
Party streets.
Sentiments and memories of seemingly
Different lives.
Some of the kids on our American block
Grew up to be gang bangers.
Some grew up to be strippers.
Some died of over-doses.
Some became addicts and attempters
Of words.
Words will never hold me gently
At night, Worlds will never
Make it better.
Words are like Chinese stars
That rain from purple skies
As the dragon comes for you
And sentiment means nothing
Your tears dry up
You years dry up
You wither away
And the Dragon comes
by James Morrill
Too capture some sentiment
That we usually invent, and we haven’t
Felt anything since we were very
Young.
When things were new.
Beautiful and American little boys
Playing cops and robbers on block
Party streets.
Sentiments and memories of seemingly
Different lives.
Some of the kids on our American block
Grew up to be gang bangers.
Some grew up to be strippers.
Some died of over-doses.
Some became addicts and attempters
Of words.
Words will never hold me gently
At night, Worlds will never
Make it better.
Words are like Chinese stars
That rain from purple skies
As the dragon comes for you
And sentiment means nothing
Your tears dry up
You years dry up
You wither away
And the Dragon comes
by James Morrill
posted by Gabe at 1:08 AM
5 Comments:
Kinda sweet & sad too
Whoever wrote this is a beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful person. I hope the Dragons go away
This is wonderful, I'd love to read more of his work.
you can read more work by this author at www.livejournal.com/users/shootthemoon86 , it takes a long time to load though, just a warning..
I read some of his work and I wonder who he is writing for. Himself or others? It's my opinion that a true writer, a good writer, writes for himself and doesn't give a shit about the critics (whether it's good or bad criticism) or what anyone says. As for this particular poem. It's good. I simply don't agree with it. Writing has saved me from the madness plenty of times and at the same time makes me more fucking insane. Writing is Hemingway's loaded shotgun. Writing is Ezra pound being dragged through the streets of Italy. What I write about is not some setiment or feeling that I remember from childhood. It's also not something I invented. And if this guy hasn't been experiencing ("feeling") anything new, then he's going to run out of things to write about.
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