THIS IS NOT A REAL POEM
this is not
chasing the coattails of immature sentences
period and catching on
this is not
breaking the barrier of thinking
in rhythm
and only comprehension is away
this is not
feeling the gritty grime
crust through fingers to the page
and land in a pattern of ugly
that is beautiful
this is not
lying through sharpened teeth
to make a point
that you don’t believe
until it’s there
this is not
real
this is not
whole
this is not
that thing that it is said to be
what it looks like
what it tastes like
this is not
that poison
this is not
anything
that is not what
it feels like being
Started out being inspired by the idea that stars are basically just ghosts.
Unedited, random piece. I like writing in fairy-tale-esque verse.
The sun it cried a bright flame
and with its breath it said,
“This earth, it turns so slowly.
They don’t know that they are dead.”
And he could spin them faster
“I won’t,” his promise tragic.
And on and on he watched them,
and always they were static.
On Earth, they had no knowledge
of pain as bright as this:
the sun the one thing living,
his fire curled in fists.
***
The stars were ghosts of living,
they birthed by death’s bright eye.
They watched the people spinning
and played their part to die.
They knew the mortals’ true flaw
unable to see truth,
the date they should be fighting
mortal claw and human tooth.
From Earth, they knew not sadness
of watching dead men’s lives,
though every night they saw it:
their fate inside the sky.
***
And Earth it cradled softly
its children bright and dying,
a beauty great and horrid
like sun and stars combining.
The world, it spun so slowly.
Time is a mortal thing
that keeps the people blinded
in constant wandering.
And if they spun it faster
they’d fly off in the sky
and shake this curse of living,
the final day to die.
***
The sky, it held them gently.
The universe expanded.
The people lived so small-y
like human life demanded.
The world, it let them go on.
The sun, it cried their fate.
Star-ghosts illuminated
their expiration date.
The mortals nodded brightly;
they felt the sun’s bright ray,
the tears that flew in star dust,
and still, on Earth, they stayed.
I think on Wednesdays there is a woman. She’s probably old with a gentle stoop and a foreign hooked nose that hides her smile. I probably like the twinkle in her eyes.
And, on Wednesdays, it is probably her job to iron and press. She probably does it with the ease built from age. But she does not have my shirts or skirts to work on.
No, she has my time. It’s already been made wet and limp by Monday’s vigorous wash, crying tears of exhausted tumbling, and laid dry and corse by Tuesdays drying, worn out from endless cycling.
And, on Wednesdays, she irons it, smooth and flat.
Presses my time so that there is the farthest flat space from one end to another. Granted, there are no hills or valleys to hurt my calves. But never the less, those wrinkles save me time. Wrinkled time is the shortest count down. So this ironing of my days leaves my time pressed unfortunately.
But, I think, on Thursdays, she folds. Her hands are probably strong and deft.
Plucking up on piece in ten minutes and bringing it close to a piece in a few hours, so that I rush through space skipping time outright.
It is as if I fly across the peaks between, seeing nothing of the passage.
She mends the damage on Fridays. It probably takes her three days to set it soft and whole again.
And I think she smiles as she smooths my folded week of time, picking lint off of Wednesday morning and sewing the rip in Monday afternoon.
It goes on the shelf next to the others. She is probably too short to reach and must get an old worn stool to stand on.
It goes next to last week, in the space before next. All with neat tags of the price I owe for such services.
But I think, the woman frowns as she studies the seemingly endless rows of folded time that belong only to me, knowing I will never come to pick them up.
breathe in
it’s peace
that fills
your lungs
breathe out
it’s war
that pumps
your blood
stand up
it’s guts
that hold
your frame
break down
it’s fear
that moves
your limbs
fists clenched
it’s hope
that’s trained
your thoughts
give in
your hope
is not
enough
shut up
it’s dumb
to part
your lips
bare teeth
they’re lies
that make
you live
open eyes
it’s life
that wakes
your time
close eyes
it’s death
that lives
your life
Super rough because I have to go study for Biology now, but I wanted to get something written down before I forgot.
I had to make a poem fast.
Not the best but "that'll do, pig. that'll do".
the onion skin broke
cracking and peeling in useless
death
like so many hands of the fated
humans
the skin ripped wide and chided
it's children
who lived and liked to cause
such chaos
it fell away to reveal the next
dead layer
of cells, tumultuously to molt
we had not killed it
it was already dead
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