Aside from 2 and 3am, I’ve kept up with the Poetry Marathon. Getting them put up while working 17 hours…well, that’s another story. They’ll go up once it’s technically over.
salt seeps onto my tongue
as i bite my lip–
your eyes on me
(mine did not miss them)
but it’s your lips i’m watching
as my mind draws them to mine;
i can see your hands in my hair,
feel the roughness of your skin,
so I lift my lips into a lopsided grin,
just letting you know–
to take up the mantle long forsaken–
to mourn the widow’s tears
and reword the newborn cry;
to speak for the mute,
to hear for the unwilling.
we are the craftsmen,
the slaves to the unwrit,
seers of beauty and horror
which no man stomachs.
we are the makers,
forgers of story and song.
we are the wordsmiths,
we are the prophets,
we are the poets.
What a fascinating question.
The river flows, changes, yet stays the same.
I am 25 years old and am the founder of an organically growing pair of businesses which bear similar names and intentions: Living Without A Map Blogging (c) and Living Without A Map Publishing (c). I write from a place of disquiet, longing for self-silence with the need to cry out from the clutter.
As a retail stocker and waitress, I constantly hunger for more: adventure, challenges, learning.
A proud over-user of parenthesis and ellipses, I have a tendency of collecting incomplete journals and presenting the world with disjointed thoughts while wandering down rabbit trails where it cannot follow.
I am quite excited to be participating in the full marathon this year, daunting though the task seems and late though I did arrive on the scene.
Disclaimer: I would have the community be aware that from 5-10 am on the day in question, I will be mercilessly stuck at work, and while I will undoubtedly write a poem each hour, I will be forced to upload most of these five after work for obvious reasons. Had I known about the marathon sooner, I would have had the day entirely to myself.