The Poetry Marathon

cw: none

The canary has never flown;
to fly would mean it would not be owned.
It wonders, now, when it can see the sun
through the room’s tiny window,
what it would be like to soar.
A canary is made to fly and to sing,
and with neither, it wonders:
is it even still a canary?
Or has its very canary-ness been taken,
thrown onto the ground, shattered,
glasslike and glassy
like death’s own reflection?

cw: none

The canary started eating paper
as a way to try and cope.
It needs words like it needs water,
and since it could no longer make its own song,
it chose to devour the ones written.
Now, it chokes on them whenever
it is not being hurt
by the humans who promised to protect and cherish it.
Perhaps if it gathers enough words,
its voice will come back.
Or maybe its feathers will regrow,
and it can fly away.

cw: abuse coached in metaphor, similar body horror to the previous poem

Behind close doors, it comes out –
all those things you never show
to anyone but the canary,
turned useless from a lack of voice.
After all, nobody would believe it,
and it’s your canary, so it’s your right:
to pluck out every feather in its wings,
and store it in a too-tight cage
and tell it that it’s all its fault.
You wouldn’t hurt it if it
wasn’t such a failure, wasn’t so bad;
you try so hard, you see,
but it just brings out
all the worst in you.

And the canary wants to scream,
but all the gas and smoke ruined it.
So when you rip out its heart
and tell it to look you in the eyes
while you devour all its innocence,
it says nothing.

cw: abstract body horror??? maybe??? idk being safer rather than sorrier

The canary chokes on vellum flowers,
and it bleeds black ink.
It swallows down each lettered rose,
turning yellow feathers gray like smoke.
The canary forgot how to sing,
and so was locked away, forgotten –
no use to anyone like that,
voiceless,
and so it chews up poetry
folded into origami flowers,
as if the bouquet is salvation,
as if it can regain its voice,
as if it can sing again
via suffocation.

content warning: talkin about emotional abuse

It builds slowly.
A steady incline.
One moment:
everything’s fine.
Then, suddenly,
like shattered glass on the floor,
you’re left with questions,
no answers,
and a world you don’t know anymore.

No self-discovery could have prepared you for this:
marks on your heart,
not the shape of his fist.
There’s hesitation,
and doubt,
and so much regret.
You want to move forward;
you want to say ‘not yet’.

When the dialogue opens,
you’re not sure what to say.
Did you imagine it all?
Can you make it go away?
The tree remembers;
the axe forgets.
You try to move on,
but you’re held back.
Do you call it quits?

The story most people
think of, around you,
is not the story that is
most honestly true.
Truth is subjective,
you’ve learned that in fact,
and when you look in the mirror,
you see what you lack.

If you are just watching
shadows on walls,
then how can you know
anything’s real at all?

And the people who hurt you,
they get away scott-free.
Because nobody listens
and they don’t have to think
about the damage they caused you,
about how you sink.

So you take duct tape
together with glue
and try to piece together
the more-broken you.
Somewhere in distance,
you’ll find you’re okay.
Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing stays the same.

content warning: intense and emotional, talking about feeling overwhelmed

but fuck, a poet’s what i am –
i’ve got the rhythm, the way
of the words, the metaphor and
the twist, the uneven rhyme
and i move and manipulate it
’til it looks and sounds perfect.
and somehow on the other side
it feels a lot like i can’t do this –
can i do this?
drowning and flying can feel identical
and i am doing both, opening my wings
and becoming myself while i
collapse
there’s all too much – it’s all too much
i am screaming into the abyss
and the cruelest irony is that the abyss
does not scream back.
it swallows my voice and my echo and it burns it up,
fuel for its fire,
i am collapsing and so is my foundation.
when i’m gone what will be left?
will my words say anything of me?
will there be anything worthwhile in the words –
these words, my words,
the words that keep me sane, keep me grounded,
that are the way i express myself to the world.
or will i fade into anonymity and nothing
and leave nothing behind?
when all is said and done
you gotta wonder
which is better.

content warning: depressing. talks about being in pain and is just. generally an upset poem.

i get so caught up in the reality
that i forget all about the pain.
divide and conquer. compartmentalize.
make it make sense. deep breaths.
try to stay sane.

how can i be doing so much better
but still be drowning?
it’s been a long time since i could last breathe,
and none of this comes easy.

i’m tempted to give up.
the thought makes my stomach hurt.
everything in me is aching
something in me burns.

who i was is not who i am,
although there’s similarities.
i try to manage it all the time
but get lost in the details of the shame.

pain is physical and emotional,
something i never quite shake.
i’m tired – of course i’m tired –
because it always feels the same.

content warning: none. senryu my beloved

There is joy in this,
Late night, sharing words, finding
Art in the mundane.

content warning: it’s very abstract.

In the night sky, here rises the moon.
Pale face smiles upon us, passengers
of the world, a temporary flight.
It is long and winding, this road
that we walk, leaving behind memories of smoke
as we listen to the calls of birds.

In the darkness, songs of the night birds
fill the air beneath the lovely moon.
We put out our campfires, and the smoke
covers the sky, briefly, from us passengers
as we take respite from the weary road.
In the morning, once more we will take flight.

The sun rises into the sky and so our flight
begins. The night birds are replaced by day birds,
their song different accompaniment as we travel the road,
saying hello to the sun and goodbye to the moon.
In your life you are also a traveler, a passenger,
on your way to a destination beyond life’s smoke.

Most things exist with multiples. Take, for example, smoke:
it conceals and it guides, it hangs low and brings flights
of fancy in its shapes, and even those who know they are passengers
are not immune to dreaming of birds
flying high beneath the shy lady, our sweet moon.
The metaphorical life is also a winding road.

It is broken and twisting and sometimes unbelievable, our road,
but it reminds us of where we need to go when the smoke
becomes intoxicating. The road remembers, much like lady moon,
and it helps us through our flight.
We sing to bring joy and keep our energy up, and we sing like the birds,
for the joy of it. Birds are the same as us: passengers.

And so it must be said: we are all passengers.
Temporary travelers who walk many different roads
and follow the songs and wings of birds.
This life is insubstantial, and the next life is also like smoke –
but our souls shine bright, rise into the sky, take flight –
and return home, to us and from us, under the light of the moon.

EDIT on June 26: I, uh, forgot the last stanza.

The night sky’s passengers rise like smoke,
Smiles borne on the road, upon us in flight,
In the world, the birds fly beneath the temporary face of the moon.

content warning: just sad feeling

Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.
You’ve fought hard but now the fight is done.
You’ve done so much; you’ve done your best.
It does not matter whether you’ve lost or won.

At the end, all sins are bare and truths confessed,
There’s nothing left to hide, nowhere left to run.
Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.
You’ve fought hard but now the fight is done.

A bed awaits you, a gentle and soft nest,
And when night passes, you will awake to the sun,
You are well-loved, you are another one;
All those you wanted to, you have impressed.
Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.