The Poetry Marathon

Tiny bubbles swim up and down the glass,
In small swirls and God-given designs
creating sizzling fresh sensation
of a taste like lemon-lime sweet sugar.
And lapping up this nectar lemon-lime
Sends tongues into a wandering taste dance

Your little head snuggles into my arm,
One last time,
And I can’t help but smile,
Even though I know
This gasp of breath
Coming from your tiny lungs
Is your final cry.

And then I really am alone.

Hungry stomachs churn

with food anticipation,

then turkey is served.

The click of a car door,
I turned my back on you.
Then the squeal of a worn
Window being rolled down
“See you later,”
You said and waved.
But under my breath
I whispered,
“No you won’t.”

You sniff, smelling the thickening tar
That is smeared across the road,
And you gasp as the heat intensifies
In the oven that is your car.
The rumbles of cars idling slowly
Almost lulls you into a slumber,
But then you hear the screech,
And curse as someone almost
Slams into your back bumper.

Taken off the site due to personal reasons!

If you are a marathoner and want to read this one, just let me know. 🙂

A pin pricked her and blood fell to a fitted sheet
of fabric, that was lying on the oak workplace,
she couldn’t bare herself to sew the pleat.

Many men wanted her to tailor their suits complete,
but all she wanted to do was efface.
A pin pricked her and blood fell to a fitted sheet.

And it’s true, the girl was quite petite
when she let them pay her, just in case
she couldn’t bare herself to sew the pleat.

She would often cry, and take the mistreat
and know it as a falling from grace.
A pin pricked her and blood fell to a fitted sheet.

And with needles thin, she sewed designs discreet
although people still knew her face,
she couldn’t bare herself to sew the pleat.

Later they would find her body in the street,
and her life would be nothing but a blank space.
A pin pricked her and blood fell to a fitted sheet,
she couldn’t bare herself to sew the pleat.

I read her name

At fourteen years

and I thought she was

A fool—crazy.

She stopped the clocks

The night her heart

Shattered. Wore lace

Everyday. Insane.

But now, it makes sense,

Why she would want to live

Waiting. Wishing. Wondering.

I finally understand.

My clock stopped

September 9^th.

I’ve finally “Crushed all hope,”

As you told me to do.

I hear voices

all around me,

Shadows call

and taunt me

with whispers of

Friendship

Of love

and of joy,

but none of them

are directed

to me.

Angry storms die out

In a soft murmur of rains,

And the sun breaks free

Bathing the soaked new-born cats

In saving warmth and new hope.