millie's mediocre poetry
written by Millie
hello I'm millie and here is a collection of my poems (I was inspired by dani knight to post poetry so thank you to her) most of these dont make sense, sorry
Last Updated
07/07/21
Chapters
7
Reads
353
Backwards Sensibility
Chapter 7
Climbing the stairs
at your parent's old place, that one by the beach.
A backdrop for a world so unromantic,
seagulls were the soundtrack
of that summer. An escape from the bursting traffic of
regulars and thoughts. The pelicans rest their
heads on the fence posts, fishy breath-air slaps my cheek.
Each step up is six more back. Turn the handle
with three fingers because the others are
closing doors behind me.
Brown paper napkins stuff my
pockets: drafts of words for you.
You couldn’t read them if you wanted,
the tears stabbed the ink through.
The doormat is clean, but I can’t picture you
washing it. Nor can I see any shoes upon it but mine.
That melancholy scent creeps
under the door again. You never kept it
sweet. I brought a vase for your
daffodils, the ones you picked from some woman's
garden, but they’re
probably dead.
Come to think of it, you
probably are too.
*authors note: don't worry it's supposed to sound clunky lol. this is titled 'Backwards Sensibility' because something complicated was going on with a friend of mine and this poem is how I felt before I knew anything about it. He was being a horrible person to me and I was angry and feeling nostalgic for how we used to be. Right after I wrote the poem I got the whole story and felt terrible about how angry I had been and deleted the poem immediately. THEN, something else happened that made me realize I was right to be mad in the first place and he was just a shitty person, and I rewrote the poem. and here it is.
at your parent's old place, that one by the beach.
A backdrop for a world so unromantic,
seagulls were the soundtrack
of that summer. An escape from the bursting traffic of
regulars and thoughts. The pelicans rest their
heads on the fence posts, fishy breath-air slaps my cheek.
Each step up is six more back. Turn the handle
with three fingers because the others are
closing doors behind me.
Brown paper napkins stuff my
pockets: drafts of words for you.
You couldn’t read them if you wanted,
the tears stabbed the ink through.
The doormat is clean, but I can’t picture you
washing it. Nor can I see any shoes upon it but mine.
That melancholy scent creeps
under the door again. You never kept it
sweet. I brought a vase for your
daffodils, the ones you picked from some woman's
garden, but they’re
probably dead.
Come to think of it, you
probably are too.
*authors note: don't worry it's supposed to sound clunky lol. this is titled 'Backwards Sensibility' because something complicated was going on with a friend of mine and this poem is how I felt before I knew anything about it. He was being a horrible person to me and I was angry and feeling nostalgic for how we used to be. Right after I wrote the poem I got the whole story and felt terrible about how angry I had been and deleted the poem immediately. THEN, something else happened that made me realize I was right to be mad in the first place and he was just a shitty person, and I rewrote the poem. and here it is.
