The Poetry Marathon

I hated the sea, its vastness, and uncertainty.

Thrown on a boat, tethered to the helm.

Murky brown waters fade to clear blue as the sun beats down on me, all around me.

Blinding heat chokes me as salt permeates my skull.

I yearn for blissful shade, a gust, a breeze.

Thirst falls upon me, my mouth unable to form words.

I cannot scream for help.

No longer do I care about how alone I am on this vessel.

The time has come for me to survive.

My teeth saw my hands free from the ropes, it takes hours.

Struggling to keep my balance I peer over the side of the ship, the depth is dizzying.

Panic sets in.

I am alone.

The engine rolls over every time I try to start it, I am dead in the water.

So I allow myself to float.

Staring at the clouds as I lay on my back trying to remain calm.

Time passes.

I reflect back on my life before The Boat.

Kick my self over all the time I took for granted.

Nausea, exhaustion.

At some point, I lull off into a warm sleep.

Visions of cold water and comfort fill my head.

I wake.

I cry.

Night comes and the sky explodes.

I never realized how terrifyingly microscopic I am in this universe.

Millions of stars guide me through the night, singing lullabies.

The water becomes still in an almost malicious way.

Dawn begins to break and I’m carving words into the planks on the floorboard.

And then a bump.

Land.

In the golden glow streaming in from the rafters, I feel glittering magic descend.

In times of trouble golden hues lay a blanket of calm over me.

Dark tunnels lit by glowing torches, holding my breath until I reach the next fire.

Cold air fills my lungs, my stomach aches, the candle beside me dances.

Dirt underneath my fingernails I try to scream, no sound, but the lighter beside me holds me.

Cobblestone walls and an aging wood ceiling sway with the flames.

Old lightbulbs, spheres of cracked glass, dark orange filament twisting together like two rival serpents.

My eyes can rest, no strain, I am warm, safe.

Comfort, I find comfort in the golden light.

Antique lampposts in the park, flickering in a non-threatening way.

The beam of a dull flashlight, batteries clunking around loosely.

Strike a match and feels the fear ease, no longer in the dark.

Forget rose-colored glasses and painting the town red, forget the blues and feeling green.

I’m following the golden flicker.

Swirling in my head, a floating sensation.

A phrase that usually condemns you to eternal damnation.

From Salem to a faraway land with a hard-to-pronounce-name.

“Magic is not real” is screamed in the face of me, a person who won’t tame.

Crystal balls tell the truth while plumes of smoke shoot out at random.

Explaining the intuition you have and keeping your secret in tandem.

Magic!

Think of Roald Dahl and the way his books make you feel.

Kick yourself for thinking that his stories aren’t real.

Bottles of potions and drinks whose bubbles fall down.

Witches that steal children, creating chaos that reaches the whole town.

Seeing Matilda in yourself and yourself in her.

Knowing that you’re different from the other kids, the lines you do blur.

Magic!

We aren’t taught how to believe because our minds are too powerful.

Shoving our magic into more useful planter boxes that are anything but flowerful.

Witches who become artists, wizards who become singers.

Writing, painting, sewing, the shimmery glow that lingers.

Life is mysterious, unknown and full of danger.

An entirely different perception in the mind of a stranger.

Magic!

My poems are spells, though I don’t intend them to be.

I can clear through the fog, open my eyes and see.

Magic is real, it’s in me and you.

Question everything, especially the things you believe to be true.

I end this spell with a quick little note.

Go back and find the magic in everything you’ve painted, sang, and wrote.

I am here.

Raging waters, roaring rapids, currents flood me, but I am solid and do not move.

Am I the strongest, the most resilient? I’d hate to think so.

Trees tower overhead, leaves fall in circles around me, I am at but a speck in the grand scheme of it all.

Am I important, important in the slightest bit? I’d hate to think so.

The sun cascades through the clouds, stinging my skin in a nostalgic kind of way, but I am unphased.

Am I fearful of the repercussions of my actions? I’d hate to think so.

With each breath, I think about where to go next, where to venture, I am fleeting, just like time.

Am I letting life pass me by without stopping and appreciating it? I’d hate to think so.

Now, I am gone.

Flowers and I dance the synchronized dance of decay. I am returning to earth.

Am I the soil squished between your toes? I like to think so.

Every Sunday the swarm of mourning families flood in. I am left alone.

Am I alone because my children are out in the world living beautiful lives? I like to think so.

The stone identifying me is cleaned regularly, so as not to cover me up. I am still being taken care of.

Am I still important in some peoples eyes? I like to think so.

Time passes by and the visits stop altogether. I am forgotten.

Am I still on their minds? I like to hope so.

Hello fellow writers! My name is Courtney and this is my first time participating in The Poetry Marathon. I’m super excited to participate as well as a bit nervous. I currently work at a law firm part-time while going to school full-time and have found it difficult to find the time to write, so carving out a whole 24 hours to write is a real dream.