i feel like time is dragging me along by the hand
the way a mother tugs her child to preschool/
but instead of kicking and flailing and screaming
i am numb to the days that pass
note: i wrote this really quickly for a writing sprint in this summer program i'm doing online. we were given a list of words and then chose to write whatever we wanted while including all of the words.
I wrote this for an assignment in my English class. We listened to a spoken word poem, "How To Be a Person" by Shane Koyczan, and the assignment was to write a 5-stanza poem inspired by it, about how we can be better people this year.
the city is on your lips tonight
as you die in a feverish glory.
the world is not yours for the taking:
you are too young to be broken.
i laugh and watch
as you rearrange your life in circles—
I'm told to write what I know
so here is what I know:
I was scared of the man on the train, the one
snorting lines between the cars.
I was scared he would lose his mind
and make a tear through my heart
you are not the poetry i’m used to. you are skin and bones and all the things i cannot say because i am too afraid to admit them. i am a coward: i did not say goodbye and i knew i would regret it.
crisp autumn air, whispers bear
hill crests only we know where leaves are so
amber and the sky is so golden.
if you wrap your hand around your mother's wrist
your fingers will touch. how
do you come to terms with that? how
do you learn that your father's shoulders
can no longer bear your weight, can barely
Somewhere outside of Philadelphia,
there is a small island in a
pond shaped like a boomerang.
When I tilt my chin to the heavens,
I wonder which foolish god
threw it to this barren part of earth?
there's a hurricane tomorrow, but we still
have school. hurricane, and you can smell it
boiling on the horizon, a heady, light-headed
sort of feeling, but my brother and i
sit together in the courtyard
He is a toy cowboy on a horse
and is dragged off into the sunset
while my stuffed bunny heart
waits in the backdrop to be held.
Our God is the small Girl who hides
under beds when yelling strikes.
anxiety goes tick-tick-tick
in the monochrome metronome of clockwork clicking
yet the key keeps turning, turning, turning,
'till creaking cogs are fit to crack
and gears wound up and ready to