Miss Marian Cliche. - Poem by William Burgamy
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 self-loathing 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 not 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.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Her silent instruction groomed me in a rather particular sense, as it relates to my mentality of composure & composition.
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