A Pre-Renaissance Complaint Letter

i am sick of writing letters. 
torn at the brim, 
the envelope seal seared my tastebuds.
i write to characters and 
cry for help , i whisper to figments of my
boundless imagination
my poems direct a single audience 
with my limiting knowledge .

we leap and break, 
throwing rocks at those who do not
understand us. 
Our audiences.

vocal chords, 
torn at the brim .
hemless blouses and black coffee stain our scripts.
creators are Outcasts.
One day they will listen. 

 

crisscross

NY

17 years old

More by crisscross

  • Release

    She was born in the radiation era, 
    A veil of marble covers her eyes,

    Her lids webbed in waves: 

    They were stitched too tight

    to permit the penetration 

    of the perpetrator.

  • supernova

    when a star dies, it is a violent explosion.

    it can emitt more light than an entire solar system.

    and while it pulses with hot gas and blue light,

    it slowly dims. until its remnants are scattered