Tuesday, 13 June 2017

Poetry Anothology Project

I.
White Knuckles

My pride- a fire
Roaring in my stomach and climbing up my chest
Refusing to go unnoticed
Refusing to sit in the sidelines
And not interfere

My pride leaves me crying in the bathroom
Typing out the same story over and over again
Until I’m the only one left
With no option to escape
My grip on it tightens

“I want to go home”
Because home is safe
And home is familiar
But home can’t free me from my own mind
Or my petty grudges
Or every trait that further isolates me
Until I’m completely alone

I want to let go
Why can’t I let go?
Knuckles white
My grip on it tightens

II.
By a Girl Who is Sick of Being Stepped On

School systems
They bleed copper pennies
Cry silken tears
But their faces host no stains

Their tin foil minds 
Feed insincere advice
Empty promises, and plastic sympathy
To the chapped lips of their tin foil mouths

And they think they're smart
But they're so blissfully unaware 
Of the hurt and the crushing bias
that they must be schemingly hyper-aware

Of the pain they cause the children
They "protect" under their roofs
When ten years of harassment is dealt with
Threat Of Suspension

Do they not see what they're doing
When they're sweet talked and lied to
And turned against the little girl
Who has no place in her world?

You say: "special snowflake"
I say: "They hurt me
But You Broke Me"

III.
Bad Poem About Bad Poems

And as I sit here
writing bad poems
I know
that you are
the sun
the moon
the clouds
and all of the stars
in my sky
And in my gut
I can feel
the chaotic calm
settling 
as I realize
that even now
I would take a bullet for you
even though
I know
that you’re the one holding the gun

IV.
Consumed

I can’t handle you
When I think of you, look at you
I’m consumed
I’m a cup of water and you’re the meniscus
Sitting at the rim of the glass
Almost spilling  over
But not quite
I almost sleep
But I never do
I hear your voice in my dreams
Your smile is burned to the inside of my eyelids
Your laugh is embedded in my soul
And when I go
I’ll tell the gods to carve our names in the stars
So our love never truly dies

V.
Black and White 

A single white rose
Sitting in the dark room on 
The cold winter’s night.
Like a breath on frosty glass
Obstructing your view
Then disappearing, my love
Is but a fleeting moment

VI.
Untitled

She was the wind
She tugged on my heart and flew me over the top of the world

And then
She stopped

She left, and she dropped me into the ocean
So I sank
Deeper
Deeper
Deeper
Suffocating

And here I am
Still sinking
Deeper
Deeper
Deeper

But I am learning to swim

I am learning to fight back
To reach the surface

Because she may be the wind 
But I am the stars
And I will survive this

I will

VII. 
Hiking

A clear mountain stream
Carving through the rocks
And rushing, fast-paced

I breathe in the fresh, thin air
Dizzy from high altitude 
The sky is filled with white noise

Dandelion seeds
Blow past in the wind
Inhaling, I sneeze

VIII.
Power Outage

Flickering candles
Reflecting the snow outside
Can’t warm my cold hands

IX.
Freckles

Your
Freckles
All scattered
Reminded me 
Of a game; I want to connect the dots.
But this is not a game, your face is stern
As you start to
Back up and
Walk from
Me

X.
"Pride"


____________________________________________________________________

Poetry contests I entered:
http://www.poetryinstituteofcanada.ca Open Ages Poetry Contest
http://poetry.com/ Daily contests
http://www.poetrynation.com National Amateur Poetry Competition

Evidence:







Poems submitted:
White Knuckles
By a Girl Who is Sick of Being Stepped On
Black and White
Hiking
Freckles

Poem Formats:
White Knuckles- free verse
By a Girl Who is Sick of Being Stepped On- free verse
Bad Poem About Bad Poems- free verse
Consumed- free verse
Black and White- tanka 
Untitled- free verse
Hiking- extended haiku
Power Outage- haiku
Freckles- double tetractys 
"Pride"- concrete


Thursday, 9 February 2017

two weeks

“Well, what happened? I want all the details!”

“Okay... The three of us were supposed to meet at a cafe before the movie, but I was a little late. When I arrived, they were sitting with their heads close, talking practically in whispers. I walked up to them, and they stopped talking. He looked at me and proudly announced: ‘Hey before you came in she said that she loves you.’”

“Oh, damn.”

“Yeah, I just brushed it off. I didn’t want to make things weird. Anyway, she was acting stressed out the whole night. She was jumpy and peeved and I tried to get her to talk to me a couple of times, but she wouldn’t budge.
I felt so helpless, watching her act so upset the whole night. Even at that party that we went to, she was really quiet and jittery. She’s insanely pissed off at him, too. At one point she dragged him off to another room and they didn’t come back for, like, ten minutes. Afterwards, he kept apologizing and she kept brushing his apologies off. She was trying to act nonchalant, but her anxiety was radiating off of her in waves.”

“He’s such an asshole.”

“I know, what a dick! We all eventually went our separate ways, but she and I texted when we got home. She kept apologizing for acting so on edge, and at one point she asked me if I knew what was going on.
‘It’s pretty obvious,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it is.’ I responded.
‘Oh,’”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. I told her not to say it.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Around two weeks.”

“Girl.”

“I know! Okay? You don’t need to tell me. But I’ve never felt so strongly for someone. Neither of us is going to say it. She said that she’s saving it, and I think I am too.”

“You are? It’s been two weeks!”

“I know! It’s been two weeks, and I think I’m in love with her.”

Saturday, 28 January 2017

his closet

His closet is a mess. It is evident that his clothes, previously strewn around his room, have been hastily shoved into the closet. The clothes hear him apologising to his guests for the mess in his room, almost as though he’s forgotten that he momentarily tucked it away from the eyes of his company.
His closet is big. That’s a perk of living in the suburbs; he could practically live in it. Still, he can never find anything in there. All his black clothes blend into a big pile of nothing, and he wonders if he’s staring at a black hole, his clothes lost in it. In search of That One Shirt, he tears the pile apart, and again his clothes are thrown around the room. He doesn’t find the shirt, and his clothes are left on the floor, only to be inevitably shoved back into the closet after six hours, seven hours, seven days.
His closet is a metaphor. A cycle of mess, constantly moving from behind to in front of the mirror door. Rinse and repeat. He stares into his own eyes and sees hopelessness. He never gets a break from his own mind; a cycle of unproductivity.   

Tuesday, 13 December 2016

almost enough


what is a hero?

hero/heroine
  1. a person admired for bravery, great deeds, and noble qualities
  2. the most important person in a story, play, or poem
  3. in Greek legend, a person of more than human qualities

  1. almost admired
the conch in his hand
cannot compare
to the boar
on the stake

2. Almost important
the ship passes by
fire unnoticed
unattended
the children play on

3. almost a demigod
his golden hair
a golden crown
he's not enough
anymore



Sunday, 11 December 2016

the island is green

he hunts
sort of
he searches and chases
but the pigs' blood remains unshed
the island is green

between the high sea
and the high C#
the island is barren
with not a single teacher to praise him
nor a parent to love him

he dreams
he hopes to sink his knife into a pig
or two pigs or three
dilute the blood within the water
run the island red

but what does a high C# matter
when no one around cares?
his talents forgotten
the conch just out of his reach
the island remains green


Friday, 23 September 2016

and

i needed an escape; I went out, went somewhere
anywhere because i needed to leave and
what now?
i walked and walked until i stopped
and sat down with my bum on my heels and looked
until i could feel particles
buzzing in my feet from the cut off circulation but i still looked until
the light of the stars was burned into my eyelids
i closed my eyes and got up off the ground and
stomped the blood back into my feet but when i turned to go back
there she was
illuminated by the streetlight and i
was frozen
captivated by her beauty
and i was standing in the middle of the road like an idiot
but my legs were suddenly wires
not firm wires they were thin and breakable and i was sure i had
collapsed but then i was walking toward her and i gave her a
hand and we were walking
hand in hand
alongside the sleeping cars and empty shop windows
and there was a silence between us but
not really a silence more like a language
only we understood and we were
both barefooted and i felt
my heart
skip a beat
every time i looked at her and
every time she looked at me
i knew
we were both boundlessly happy and
i knew
that we would be okay
by the time time ran out for us