I wrote this at the age of 18. June of 1990, according to the date
in my old Malachite Green Journal. Shoulda been way over it by then,
but apparently I wasn't.
Its meaning is, um...I'll have to get back to you on that. I find
myself reading it and going, "Wha..?" I suppose it could sort of
count as "Life Sucks" but probably falls more into the category of
"Look How Sensitive/Special/Stressed Out I Am." Or something.
I think this was my personal best in terms of Overwrought Images/
Stanza. I may have jammed more awfulness per iambic foot into this,
than into anything else I ever produced.
So here it is:
Someone's throwing pebbles at my window
The shadow men are climbing on my walls
Silently I watch them dance and dwindle;
Someone with a voice makes voiceless calls.
There's echoes of the stones that crack the glassworks
Where I have hid away the things I know
And ripples where they've fallen in the water
And puddles where my soul was made of snow.
Catching every rock for my collection:
Little bits of sanity and fright
(Watching while the pane is scratched in anguish)
Needing just one more for every night.
Help me I can't catch them, falling faster
Spinning like infinity and rage
No one's here but absolutes have left me;
Hurricanes of mind, my only cage--
Someone's throwing pebbles
at my window.
By: Tracie Thompson