I know I'm in my own world... it's okay, they know me here

We talk about
                        everything –
            words rambling like briars over
fertile ground, reaching
                        for some common goal, some
            shared opinion. We
                        disagree, sometimes, but gently.
We agree, mostly, in a rush of same syllable synchrony,
        tripping over one another, tanglefooted.
                                    Bedtime comes too soon.
                                    So do phone bills.

You
                        left.
            There is a space where you were,
a vacuum, starless;
                        a hole in lost time.
                                    A gap, like a missing tooth
            I niggle with my tongue while waiting for the bus;
                                    sore and open but with no chance of filling.
            You did not choose this.
            Neither did I.

Early morning wake-up call
"Wrong number,
sorry."
I lie in bed and curse the ceiling
as the dark room fades to dim-lit dawn
surrender; thermostat clicks on and off
as radiators gurgle.
Sleep is on-and-off fragments.
When sun comes up the phone is silent.

I’ve read this
too many times
now
severed sentences like
falling limbs cut off from
meaning
just sounds and letters stringed
together like
daisy chains
or
paperclips
each one the same
unbeautiful and stationary

Suddenly it is
            dark
outside at three pm
already dusky, sunlight draining like
orange juice down
to leave me
                floodlit
                        car-park swimming
key in hand, easy walk from
work and
            yet
                         my heart is
thrumming

Headache day = not fun. But I wrote another poem today. It's weird; I was never much of a poet before, but I'm quite enjoying it now. It's like all my creativity is finally finding enough headspace to come back in from the cold wastes of the last few years of struggling to squeeze out enough words to fill a post-it note.

p.s. I know it is not Sunday today but it made a better title


slow sunday prose

I fall in love with
                        narrative
and tone
when
a story is not just a story but
a window; watching
other people’s lives like
            falling
leaves
                        and
                                    blasphemies
and
            the smell of skin under glass
I like to live vicarious
                        deep-ocean feelings
then shelve them when I’m full and brimming with
sweet soft sounds of
distant loves and

pages turning

...so, I thought about why I was stuck on the fic I was trying to write, and then I tried to write some more, and was stuck some more. So I did some more thinking.

Whenever I write fic, I've always been better at writing something that tries to convey a mood, a feeling, than at seriously plotty stuff. There's plot in there, but the plot is there as a catalyst to carry the mood over to the reader. That's what I'm good at, fic-wise. And the fic I was trying to write wasn't like that at all. I love love LOVE the premise, and I'm going to keep trying, but maybe it needs more gestation time first.

So now I'm writing something completely different! And I need your help!

Here is my question: what are your favourite poems? Why do you like them? Can you quote me some/all of it?

It would be really helpful! Thank you in advance :)