Poetry for a Screenplay

by Sophia Harvey

Instead of regaling you all (are there any of you left?) with words of why I’ve been away and apologies for internet-neglect, I’m just going to jump back into this lovely blog world. I’ve been writing away, in between lots and lots of sound design (most notably for the fabulous short film The Perfect Man), and these are just a few poems that I wrote for my current feature screenplay project.

They are meant to be spoken word and will ideally exist in that way someday, but for now they are on paper, and now, they are here.

The character who “writes” these poems is a 24 year old living in Brooklyn, with an overly romanticized view of her own hedonism. She believes that you must be tortured to be an artist. Enjoy.

I.

If she could consider, she would

but when she stumbles she falls

and lips don’t part when they should.

She’ll quiver for you but not for herself

but that quiver’s a shiver for someone else.

She trusts no one but you, whoever you are tonight.

Take shelter in her heart, whoever you are tonight.

Reckless and feckless with bruised lips she trips

into a joy of her own.

But it’s a fleeting fog that rolls to the beat

of your morning exit.

And caves that drip Rock n Roll and leather scented illusions

harbor the merchants of her sanctioned delusions

and beckon to you, whoever you are tonight.

Your ink bleeds and your hard sleeves show soft skin below.

But she don’t play with lambs or tears, no, she don’t want to know.

So get your guns and leave your keys, whoever you are tonight.

II.

I see your swag, yeah, you wear it good

and I see those chicks you’re foolin’

and people been sayin you got a real mean streak

but you’re just my little boy flexin.

Behind those snears I see tears that are forgotten

and your palms hold love and pain but ain’t that the game

yeah, you’re just my little boy flexin’.

Ain’t nobody knows your glint is passion

and those shades hide more than scars skin deep

and ain’t nobody knows the fashion in which you hold me when we sleep.

We got the concerned and caring staring with hollow knowledge.

You can take your savior obsessions

and

forced

flase

confessions

and rearrange your own strange lives.

I ain’t got no question

and it’s my only confession

that he’s just my little boy flexin.

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