Bad Poetry

So it’s the five year “anniversary”. Does the word “anniversary” creep you guys out as much as it’s creeping me out? It doesn’t seem right.

I’m sorry that I don’t have a “9-11 Montage” for you like everyone else. I wasn’t around when it happened; I was in Europe with no TV and I missed all of the panic and hysteria. Whenever I talk about it with people who were here, something happens to them… their faces and eyes change slightly, into an expression that I don’t really understand. It doesn’t seem right to talk about how much it “affected me”.

I mean, it did affect me, but not to the same degree as anyone in the States, or anyone from that area, and especially not anyone who was actually there or knows someone who was. It was like watching footage of the Tsunami or Katrina or the earthquake in Afghanistan… other moments that we should “never forget” even though it seems like we already have. But I’ll say this… I could have never gotten though that time without the Jersey Boys, Jen and Kevin.

I’ve only written one thing about 9-11. I was going to post it today, but when I started typing it up I realized the following things:

1. I need to change the ending. It’s only fair.

2. I finally put my finger on why I fell in love with Brian… he always had a story to tell me. Those stories were always funny when I was sad, comforting when I was scared, etc. It’s the same reason I fell for TSGoC, too. It’s nice to finally realize that… it gives me something to look for the next time around.

3. I am rooting hardcore for World Peace. Mostly for the obvious reasons, but also because terrorism reminds me of my ex-boyfriend.

So here is the only thing I wrote about 9-11. It’s not good – but nothing about that day was, so I feel okay about sharing my crap poetry with you:

You were pointing out the scar on your knuckle
From the time you got a wrench stuck on your finger
When it suddenly hit me…
It was supposedly the beginning of “The End”
And yet, there we were,
Sitting against ivy-covered bricks on a London rooftop
On the exact spot where Nazis dropped bombs in World War II,
Or at least that’s what the plaque read in the cafeteria.
You put your jacket over my shoulders because
It was September and it was getting cold.
We didn’t talk at all about the assigned topic;
We talked about being so far from home,
And we laughed about braces and baby fat,
And we reminisced about love,
And we watched the clouds move so fast
That they seemed to fall below the edge of the roof.
For once, I stopped wondering if everything had changed forever.
I only wondered how on earth you got a wrench stuck on your finger
And how they got it off,
And when the moon would pop out from behind the clouds
Or if we’d see it at all that night.
For a moment I stopped trying to picture tomorrow
And everyone who would be there.
I could only think about how scared an eight year old would be
With a bone saw from the morgue that close to his finger,
And I thought about how your eyes change color every day
And how maybe I could love you.
We tend to spin time into what we want to see
The way a cowboy twirls a gun
Around his finger.
But the moments that stick and inevitably scar
Are unforeseen and never fail
To captivate me.


Filed under London

2 responses to “Bad Poetry

  1. Pingback: Go Shortcake, It’s Your Birthday | Secretly Stephie

  2. Pingback: Clewell Intentions | Secretly Stephie

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