Treasure Island

William Burgamy

Miss Marian Cliche.

As to who she is I am not entirely aware, but what she stirs within my soul is all too recognizable. 
Particularly when she leaves me in lament for what I fancied & bear to be my greatest talent.   

Suddenly my bellows of prose are cracked moot. Thrown to the back of my voice box so quickly I almost sling my shoulder out trying to silence my revelry. 

Clockwork takes action as the lopsided copy of 'Death of a salesman' takes it's 3: 30 cannonball into carpeted waters & the largest After-school of fish you've ever seen. 

Within children's snickers first, her shushes seconds of scurrying over she bends at the knee & never the hip, always dropping megalithic hatred for libraries & irony in my messenger bag.  

Effortlessness abounds in my deduction of our tales tied in a borderline lust for the knowledge barely contained in walls of wood.  

Walls so thin they tear in my quivering hands of rage with every step of her heels, causing clicks flowing through the ground into earthquakes up my ribcage.

Thankfully I am paralyzed in fear of doing such a physical rambling.
For damaging said treasures would be nothing short of a grown Elephant trampling her to the ground. 

A madness that even a thousand lives in the lines of the world known as lyric could possibly budge a human top to spiral inwards through such rape of the sensibilities. 

Her demeanor portrays an ability to teach me to enjoy myself whilst I am reading. 

Stuffing thine face with the decadent literary, ever famished to consume intellectual flavorings of these most well constructed salads of paper, leather, glue & ink. 

Unfortunately, I have never learned how to simply 'read in rest'. To relax & do as she does.

I can't comprehend how else she reads other than raising the sentences from the page, conturing them into the configuration of a boat, laying down a blanket along with her pillow, & let the sea that is the story whisk her away through a spell of adventure, whimsical drama, or mystery, depending on what weather the plot brings.

If I had it my way, this poem would never be finished. 

I cannot create when she pours her being into my melting pot pupils, nor can I write when our soulful conversations of pantomime have become a Toddler's shoelaces. 

Knots that are impossible to untie.

Poetry that does not engage the inquisitive, young being with her & us all is nothing more, than a useless lecture.

Submitted: Thursday, July 11, 2013
Edited: Saturday, April 12, 2014

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Topic(s): art

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A letter of gratitude to a young, red headed darling.
Her silent instruction groomed me in a rather particular sense, as it relates to my mentality of composure & composition.


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