The Poetry Marathon

I’ll die in the night

Her duskiness is nigh
I hear the mice crawling
I will with a bottle of rum
Bid my dad life good bye
I know joy comes in the morning
Only I may not make it to dawn

Applying make up to bed
I can’t die in ugliness
Tonight could be my last
I’ll forget the tears ever shed
I’ll recall only happiness
Not a trace of the sad past

One last plate of cereal
I crave golden morn
But too late!
It felt so surreal
He really cocked the gun
It’s my fate!
Told you I won’t see dawn

Destiny

white butterflies

and confetti dance

on a warm’s summer’s day

bouquets and vows swirl

church bells chime with promises

a dragonfly lands nearby

hovers and we reach for her luck

to shower our journey to that destiny

of so many tomorrows

Turtle’s Back

Curiosity has me

as my fingers curl around

the soft rounded edge

at the end of the world

 

Pulling myself forward

on my belly

much like a kid

spying on their parents

 

I look down to the black stars

lean further and see more stars

even further and see webbed feet

swimming through the inky black

 

Ancient leathery skin folds and stretches

as a face older than time

turns its eyes to me

an unimportant speck in the cosmos

Hour 7 – my god is an awesome God

My god is an awesome god

My god has a limp

My god has ADHD

My god has complex PTSD

My god has a disorganized attachment style

My god is as queer as hell

My god forgets to brush their teeth

My god is a sexual assault survivor

My god has sun faded stickers all over their hydroflask

My god has a complicated relationship with faith

My god smoked their first cigarette on a boat and blamed their sea legs when they vomited

My god needs to learn to take more breaks from holding the entire world’s opinion of him

My god is cursed with physical form by some other god that may or may not exist

My god is on the third consecutive hardest summer of his life so far

My god pretends to get a phone call when he accidentally boards the wrong bus

My god climbed to the top of the waterfall at the top of the hill at the top of their street only to realize that was rock bottom

My god plays no instruments because he cannot bear to be seen trying, to grow up in public

My god fell in love with a blue eyed cherub only to meet an archangel behind closed doors

My god loved him more for his wrath

My god ate 2 pounds of strawberries when they were nine, and was briefly 3% fruit

My god grew up to be much fruitier than 3%

My god hates the cloying Crisco filling of Oreos almost as much as he hates the charred husk of a cookie they claim is chocolate, even when you hold it down until the bubbles stop

My god once tried to hold themself down until the bubbles stop and it is the first failure they remember being proud of

My god doesn’t avoid their reflection anymore

My god is a lost boy, flying straight on ’til morning

My god ends up writing autobiographical poetry nearly every time they write because the artist part of their brain is the first part that loved themself enough to finally put itself first

My god flies a trans flag

My god remakes himself in his own image

My god is an awesome god, because I am my God.

Hour 7-Wordless

The words escape me.

They tumble around on the floor,

fly across the ceiling,

wave from outside the window.

The words are being obstinate.

Scary.

A bit too quippy.

I try to grab them

as they taunt me, laughing.

Damn how they allude me,

scorn me,

accentuate me,

elongate me.

Endlessly pulling away.

I have to trap them,

entice them,

lure them with sweet whispers.

Sometimes one will land.

I cannot move, I let it stay,

until others join it.

But if I move the wrong way

they fly off,

or tumble around the floor.

And I am wordless once again.

 

Little Doll

She’s a wind-up toy at the end of her reel,

pushing and puffing with dismal results

and keeling over with muscles of lead.

 

“Just give me a moment before trying to wind me up again, if you would,”

she pleads,

“and perhaps I’ll last just a little longer next time.”

 

There’s always a next time.

 

(Hour 7)

Hour Seven – 2023

2023: Unprompted, Hour Six [TRIGGER WARNING].

Days,
Full of longing;
In search of a Belonging,
Evermore.

I hear voices beyond doors,
Not meant for me;

though
they call my name,
with glee.

Hope beckons a travesty;
Nothing but more “lessons” to learn,
as the last few pieces of my Soul are left
to Burn.

Hour 7 – Aphantasia

Aphantasia

 

Imagine a world not of images but of words,

A world where when asked to picture something

You instead write a mental novel or soliloquy. 

When you close your eyes, do you see the images you place there

Or do you read it into existence within a mental universe

Only for it to die and fade when your eyes open once more. 

 

Such is the life of phantasmal words,

An imagination only capable of writing. 

Ideas and concepts become as sand-castles read about in books

Beautiful words, depicting grand schemes and things to be

Only to be washed away with the incoming tide. 

 

From those words come all of things,

Shoes and ships and ceiling wax and cabbages and kings,

Etched into permanence on the page as was stone,

Unable to be removed except by you and you alone.

Prompt seven

Wolf

If I were a wolf

When yoi say you love me

And when you say you love me
I cannot hold still
It is like holding the largest bag of candy
Akin to winning a jackpot
The biggest of all jackpots
And when you say you love me
You make my dreams come true
And bring life to my life