return of the angst poetry

as i was watching 'so you think you can dance' a judge commented on a choreographer. the judge said that not one step is made that is not from the soul. this choreographer has to be convicted of something in order to dance. and so that is my new mission for poetry. no more thought or mechanical process, just heart and conviction and soul. and maybe that doesn't have a place in the poetry world (i hope it does) and this is no means an example of such. i wish it were. but as i go on this journey, here is my first step:

Blood stained strings tightened
around the neck of a guitar
reveal my raw underbelly.

Some large toddler has snatched
the orb of my life and is shaking
it, demanding with anger

some meaning or amusement.
My precious china stammers
off of shelves and explodes.

Ceiling dust clogs my throat,
my tears. I tuck my knees and rawness
inside, a pathetic tactic

for protection. My cheek bruises,
ribs splinter, and fingers bleed as I
attempt to appease with song.


sometimes there just aren't words for what you mean, and i find that frustrating. it makes me want to read dictionaries (i call a character who reads dictionaries) and thesauruses so i can say exactly what i mean with the precise force and gut that it requires.

sometimes i wish writing was more physical. but that's the challenge, isn't it? thanks for the thoughts and patience. much love,

emilea