Broken
your unspoken promise
shatters
at my feet.
shards of shimmering
opportunity
pierce my ankles.
my bloody footsteps
leave
a trail down
stairs & hallways.
I won’t be back.
An Original Poem
I'm not original I never was original You might think I'm different But I'm just conventional In a way you're not used to That doesn't make me original. Does this hair make me pretty? Does it make you uncomfortable? I hope it makes you nervous, 'Cause I don't want you to talk to me That's not original It's the same as everybody. Maybe I am traumatized, Or maybe I'm just whining I feel like I'm gonna cry God I hope it starts raining. I want to be original I want people to look at me and say, "God I want to be like them, They're just so inspiring." I just want to be myself, But I don't know who "myself" is. I want to be a superstar I want to be nobody.
I attribute [5]
I attribute this nonsense to the
cat walking across the keys
She made a salad of letters
as good as anything else I wrote on purpose
I saw Hemingway’s house from a distance;
We craned our necks to see the doorway to the foyer where he left.
Is it paranoia if you’re right about them watching?
Isn’t it easier to give in to the fear and build your walls high to keep them from seeing you
whether they are the FBI or the one you love?
I attribute this poetry nonsense to falling in love, to falling off a cliff,
to having the layers of a decade peeled back by the light in your green eyes.
I thought I was fine and life was fine and I could enjoy this moment in the sun and that moment in the rain and see the difference between the two but
then I read about bravery and vulnerability and even tattooed it on my arm seemingly to no avail because now I am afraid.
I attribute this fear to now having your green eyes to lose where before
there was only this cat.
Poem 6
Her eyes were the most beautiful golden color
I had ever seen,
yet still she longed for brown eyes
like her sisters.
She carried herself with the kind of confidence
that could only be used to hide insecurities.
She loved horses
but was terrified to touch them.
She enjoyed our country
but missed her home.
Maybe that was something like the horses,
missing a place she could not go
longing for a thing she could not touch.
I watched her as she feared and did things anyway.
Her truest self could only be seen
as she reminisced about the days
of sleeping on rooftops
and counting stars.
Now in the city, both were hidden from her.
Stars were replaced by the cold, artificial light
of those who wished to illuminate the world
and instead disguised its beauty.
She had a story
Hidden behind the golden glow of her eyes;
I wondered if I would ever hear it.
Perhaps somewhere within that story
lie the secrets of her past-
the shells of her confidence,
and the reasons she longed to be
just like everyone else.
She had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen,
but somehow I knew
that behind them was a girl
who just wanted to go home.
-h.e.m.
One and Last
it was one of a kind that one
it was spotted throughout the land
sometimes it came out of the sun
and others it came up from the sand
and once it came from the woodland
like all things that are rare and divine
it was fated to feel the black hand
thus, the last of its kind ended up chine
Locked Out
Picture a world where misogyny wasn’t marketable,
patriarchy wasn’t profitable,
and one in which sexism didn’t sell.
Where dollars didn’t buy democracy,
corporations couldn’t control,
and where freedom truly is too big to fail.
Imagine a world in which classism wasn’t characteristic,
equality of outcome didn’t oppose the opportunistic,
and success wasn’t measured on a sliding scale.
Yes, envision a world where unity didn’t usurp,
wealth wasn’t the measure of one’s worth,
and where every attempt at avarice carried out to no avail.
SIX
The biggest day of my life finally came.
When I was six, I started school!
Nothing would ever be the same.
I was a big kid now, my class was so cool.
I got to read as much as I could,
I started writing my own stories too.
At the top of my class, they said I was doing good.
My world grew bigger and shinier, like everything was new.
I started writing stuff all the time,
Scary stories for my cousins and friends.
Never poetry though, I could make nothing rhyme.
The younger kids had nightmares and mother said it had to end.
Of course it didn’t end, I only stopped my sharing.
My goal in those early tales was to be the best at scaring.
Butterfly Hotel – Hour 4
The butterfly flew
For days he knew
His hunger was there
But nectar was rare
Then – he spotted
Stained glass, perfect to land on
To oranges he trotted
His hunger would be gone
He started to eat
one orange and another
Though not as good as nectar
But still it was delicious
Then – while eating he noticed,
“This is a trap!”
Yearning
I look from the outside, trying to get in
All I can see are the people inside.
Having such fun, laughing, grins
Out of sight, I am out of mind.
Tears they stream across my cheeks
I reach out a lonely hand
I touch the glass of the window
Attention! my actions demand.
Alas, there is naught coming to me
A bleak existence, just that.
I search for an opening into the room
In despair, I realize I can’t.
Entry 6 Half-Marathon 20.00 EU time — A Stroll
.
I watched a snail today
crawling on the garden path,
facing only forward,
looking neither left nor right.
It had a purpose,
its armoured house heavy,
its head bent and focused
as it inched its way
forward towards the lettuce,
the cabbage, the carrots,
the scattered leaves
in my untended garden,
the sluggish, sleeveless
afternoon of my retirement.
.