Performance dangles on my skin
spreading legs into webs of lace
a weaving less of Madonna/Whore
and more a spiral
of you spitting questions
and me swallowing response
as though I’m a reptile in a cage:
“Tell me, have you shed your skin lately?”

It’s hard to move when we decrease each step by 50%



Find tranquility

Buy things and be happy

Focus on a project

Get organized 

Obsess and restart 





One whispered conversation
as I make shit up on the piano
whatever sounds nice
“and she’s only 8..”
sister says to mother

And this is the moment where I know
they expect things, talent
that I am worthy

At 23 I don’t play anymore
I’d go to lessons and sight-read
Theory was so tedious, as theory is
And what have I done
except collect a freezer full of memories
from which I pick the most embarrassing
and slap myself, say NO. no no.
Don’t think of that.

Plunking shit out on the piano
typing words on the keyboard
isn’t so impressive when you’ve passed the age of expectation

And yet that whispered conversation drove me here
to round that fragment into sentence
That whisper of hopefulness and shock
a piece of kindling shook loose from the fire
Catch it for good luck
to burn and shake you


Write some poetry, ffs

because prose is too long

and depression too tedious 

Copyright © a contemplation (Emily Jones) 2013. All rights reserved.