You just have to sit down and write something

Ok, so this is for Jen - who brilliantly pointed out that I haven't actually posted a word here yet. I expect that anyone reading this already knows me pretty well, so I'm not going for a giant profound hello, welcome to my world here, yet. Maybe the blogging will be cheaper and more productive then the payment each week to my lovely counselor, I guess we'll all find out soon enough. I am unfortunately slightly overwhelmed by the narcissistic nature of this whole process, but hey, I'm not making you read this drivel. Love you guys, here's a very old poem I wrote just for you ;)

She stands arms outstretched
towards the sun
glinting highlights of dormant
winter
pushing them in the light
struggling in impatience
for the rays of warmth
to wash away the past
sometimes it almost seems
seemless
the boundary of her body & the sky
one
aglow - stretching as high
as the fingers of the trees
touching eternity
that expression
that impression
may one day
save the world
may save you
may save me
in childish glee
for life
paused on the brink
like the second before
descending off a slope
of earth
ready to fall
but caught in defiance
by something so instinctual
to be invisible
but to outshine the very sun
just a star
but just as magical
an unfathamable beauty
felt more then seen
purity as a metaphor
caught for a second
in a gorgeous girl
in a gorgeous heart
in a gorgeous day

And here's one (obviously not by me) that sums up my feelings about this at the moment, although the question remains in my mind am I the girl or I am the opposite of the girl?:

The Pose

Under the awning,
where the light yellows a little
like chardonnay,
she is her own portrait,
moody on the Boulevard St-Germain,
pouring little puddles
from her glass onto the tabletop,
noting how the water holds steady
as the glass tilts away,
not minding the waiter's stares,
because she is on the edge of metaphor
& feels very french
(by way of Ohio):
The day tips & everyone spills
toward evening - yes, yes -
& she writes this on her soggy napkin,
the letters bleeding wide
into a blurry watercolor
of which she is the main subject.

-Neal Bowers