Posts Tagged ‘poem’


firecracker1

 The blackness of my heart’s in bloom

The room turns red with rage

I watch with steady, deadened eyes

Fury takes the stage

From the heat that surges from my skin

Rise mirages of control

But behind these eyes I’m wild and

Unworthy and un-whole

A ruptured firecracker makes

Less sound than my mind

Hot beneath the collar now

I am rancor, unrefined

A breath to steady my revenge

A smile to smudge the stain

A glimpse within those righteous eyes

Diagnoses me profane

A cigarette with trembling hands

And a silent vow outside

That ever if you walk my way

All grace will be denied

 © Jerod Scott

 

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butterfly

 

Cracked Butterfly

 

Where flame and fatal devil-reds

Are bleached by night’s demise

The quiet is as black as hate

With wings of lace and lies

 

You wear a cracked black butterfly

On what sickness you can’t fix

And secrets wish to drip from lips

Like candle wax from candlewicks

 

Cut your eyes out, Baby Doll

As the butterfly’s black wings

Spread wide and dark on Paradise

And turns toxic all these things

 

Then lock-down all your lullabies

And pray God you will be saved

Until the soil’s ever-settled

Upon the secret’s grave

 

 

© Jerod Scott

 

 

            Because creative writing seems to have a mind of its own, it’s difficult sometimes, even for the writer, to decipher certain works.  Most times, you are standing back, looking at the finished product with a first time reader’s eyes, and sometimes, wondering what the hell it was you were trying to say.

            It sounds strange but each of my poems seems to have a life and personality of their own.  Most are amiable and tell me their story with ease and good manners.  There are exceptions to this though… and Cracked Butterfly is one of them.  If this poem did have its own personality, it would be stubborn, rude, self-indulgent and distrustful.  Throughout the entire process of writing this one, I had the distinct impression that the poem itself was criticizing me and that even in its rare moments of silence… it was hovering over me… just waiting for me to screw up.  Also, this poem was very possessive with its voice, revealing to me only the bare minimum of monologue in tiny snippets over the course of several hours.

            One theory I have about this kind of writing is that the subject matter is premature, and that it will flow more easily and clearly at a later time, under a different name… but the truth is… I really don’t know.  What I do know, is that, reading this back to myself, it all sounds very crazy… and maybe it is.  Or maybe, (I’m hoping!) this is a relatively normal account of the poetry writing process.  ???