The Poetry Marathon

What are you doing, little flower?
You’re not supposed to be here.
This is not the place for your kind.
Stone cold concrete is paved here.
Small seeds aren’t supposed to grow.
The cracks in the sidewalk aren’t your’s.
The asphalt boils around here, tiny plant.
Smog is going to fill your cells with poison.
Organisms bigger than you walk around here.
You’re going to be plucked, picked, or weeded.
What will you do against unforgiving pavement?
I’ll give you that, little flower – you’re tougher than me.

Blood.
A substance thicker than water.
Required for existence in most living things.

You.
A person with thicker skin than I.
And yet, you need me.

Me.
Thinner than you in every way.
And I need you just as much.

And I wish I had the weight of the tears
that I’ve shed for you,
to give you in love.

Fishing under a bright moon,
do these creatures know what’s happening?

I think about their feelings,
how they must feel when we throw our lines out.

If they even think about it,
is it intrigue, or more along the lines of panic?

The trees above form a canopy,
bugs and birds chirp in a cacophony of voices.

Individualism lost,
they bounce their chorus off the lake.

Everything in between feels it,
from the muggy, humid air to my thin breastbone.

Maybe I’ll spare the fish,
just for tonight I’ll go home hungry.

Music notes.

The only home I know.

The sole thing worse than hunger

is silence.

The night is cold, bitter.
I don’t want to be out here,
with my fingers chattering
more than my teeth.

It’s sticky in the shower;
I decided to mix
Head & Shoulders with
my sweat and blood.

Addiction gnaws at my wallet.
I have two children at home;
the eldest gets mad when
we’re 30 minutes late to school.

My youngest started drinking
at age fourteen. At sixteen,
he’s a self-proclaimed
alcoholic. What did I do?

Water, clear with tears.
Trees stand firmly, mourning the
stillness of small ones.

Don’t worry little child,
hush now.
Take my soft hand and
leave now.
Please be quiet or else
they’ll hear now.
But I promise by morning
we’ll be safe now.

Oh my god,
my pizza,
like, came
without extra cheese!

Y’know the new shoes
I got from Amazon?
They were three days
late! A whole three!

And my mom,
dude, she totally
doesn’t understand
me!

It’s just like, ugh,
I wish I could just
like run away and
everything be free.

The truck broke down outside of town. Without gas, without energy, he waits in the metal sheet bed. Sweat brims on his neck, making his shirt sticky. The sun is brutal, but he knows that it will get dark soon, and with dusk comes relief. If only he can move out before morn’.

Butterflies in a
dust bowl of wonderous light.
They flutter upward.

I imagine you asleep, curled up in my bed.
My bed. I want more than just my own indent
there. I want your’s. This small world I have,
it is big enough for the both of us, I promise.

I imagine you meeting my friends. We could
go out for a drink together, and no one would
have to tell stories about someone who doesn’t
exist, and no one feels left out.

I imagine you here, with me, and we could do
anything. But it’s only imagination because
you’re there, and the only time I see you
is through this screen. I want to see you soon.