Big Hood

the fewtch

In my hood my whole

head is a pupil

and in spaces

between fabric and flesh

there is periphery

Looking down the eye

blinks

Looking up

it rolls.

Everything around

here is crushed

cookie and empty

house feelings.

I think once

writing got me

out of jams

into clothes

my hood

You're somewhere

Atlantic.

Don't park behind me

because I leave after lunch

and I'll have to ask you to move.

And you will move,

and I'll go home.

Reviews

[Jess]

It feels as if the poems narrator (potentially yourself) has grown tired of pretending to be ok with the mundane and feels as if their skin is a shell. It is a feeling many experience and can not express. Even when it is expressed it often is seen as simply unhappy, or down. This is something people can relate to. I like it!

[Relic]

This feels like a distaste for life in general. Or perhaps just a loss of connection to what is desired. Or something else. Whichever, I like it.

[VenusFaire]

Ughhhh. Hate when that happens.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

writing usually can get us out of morose moods....we write ourselves out...but sometimes all the words just feel too shallow...decadent and like an empty house with no furniture...our heart becomes a home we don't want to go to, but must.
and our heart moves on without us.
j.