The Poetry Marathon

For the dreamers

For those of you big or small, young or old, this goes out to you.

For those of you who reach out so high that the burning in your arms almost feels like you finally touched a star, this goes out to you.

Just because I stopped writing about you, does not mean I have forgotten you all.

Just because I have chosen not to let anyone get in the way of my happy ending, does not mean I don’t see when those who have given up their dreams try to trounce on yours.

This poem goes out to you, oh broken hearted dreamers, that even if you’re still reaching for that untouchable star, never stop reaching.

Even if you manage not to catch your star, you always have a light to lead your way home.

Red Sweater.

He bought her favourite sweater,
It was red and very loud,
Said it was so I could find her,
If she lost me in a crowd,
It wasn’t very fancy,
Just a pull-over-the-head,
But you’d never seen a person,
Look so wonderful in red,
For me it was a beacon,
A sign that things would be okay,
And I’d bury my face in it,
Until the world had gone away,
Then on the day she found out,
She picked me up early from class,
And we drove and drove forever,
Watching the world go streaming past,
And I didn’t understand,
What all the tears and screams were for,
But I saw that bright red sweater,
Laying crumpled on the floor,
That one discarded item,
Said more than her words could say,
She wore it so she wouldn’t lose me,
But it was her I lost that day.

Exclamation mark

What if a broken heart could be mended with

merely a band-aid.

What if a hopeless soul could be filled with hopes and dreams

consisting of cotton candy.

What if the world was a butterfly about to emerge, now

wrapped in its silky bed.

What if we stopped wearing masks,

lying about our future past.

What if dreams and waking life were nothing else

but illusions of a madman.

swype poem

Elements sail
Survivors
Distinction
Welcome wishing,
Digital downfall, civilization.
Documentary – Romanian Soprano.
Contact woman.
Wingspan sovereign.

 

(I ran my finger over my Swype keyboard on Android to get random words and make them into a poem. it almost would make sense.)

Poem 21

My mom stands there
In here work clothes none less
Yet she looks like a queen
Her hair is short and dark
Her eyes blue like mine
I want to be her one day
Strong, brave, and confident

5am

Lonely never felt so good

i may think different

once I see

sight never became dim

And then the sun banished…

The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part XXI

October,
the month when the monsters
begin to haunt,
drift inside the attic of my body,
the trunk with all these memories,
rattles, begging me to stir up trouble,
I oblige and I soon find myself
in the asylum.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 4AM

Duality

Duality of nature

Is not be fearful

Of the positive and negativity self

As it makes the whole person

That you are

Embrace your shadow self

For accepting both

The negative and the positive

It is then we are in the position to

Embark on profound change.

The final stretch

My son was angry because I had been writing all day. He wanted my undivided attention he just wanted to play. I work 2 jobs and inbetween I try to write my thoughts he could careless that I am stressed with time that we have lost. I have a plan he may not understand hard work will reap rewards and then one day he may say he knows what this was for.

black spots

i can’t write another poem about a ceiling fan
or the way it rocks back and forth and people
worry about its health and that one day it
will just fall down and break because it dared
to keep spinning