Poetry: This Was Supposed to Be a Poem

I wrote this last night after an indescribable school day. I am extremely raw and frustrated right now. I know that we will get through this, but that does not mean that yesterday was not horrifying.

This was supposed to be a poem

About victory and relief

With lyrical metaphors of broken

Glass ceilings.

 

This is not a poem

About victory

I have nothing to share but what I saw today:

 

Empty faces

Scared

Shocked

Searching for something other than

This.

 

Off-balance bodies

That tried to step forward and were instead shoved

Back.

 

Wide eyes and muddled minds

That forgot youth

Was a bubble, and all bubbles

Pop.

 

My class is staring into our future

And a horrifying abyss is staring

Back.

 

We thought we would break glass last night,

But we broke instead.

Poetry: Page One

You stand on Page One

Broken

But fighting

Bleeding

But standing

Always

Surviving

 

You are not the Warrior

The Queen

The Wizard or the Mage

Of the last pages of my favorite novels

 

But they flicker inside of you

Embers of future flames

 

You are healing

Cracks closing

Blood clotting

Wounds scarring

Into memories

 

There is a word for taking something broken

And putting it back together with gold between the cracks

 

Don’t sell yourself short with

The dollar store super glue that

That attendant tried to sell you

Don’t buy it

 

Your story is just beginning

But I believe I know how it ends

Poetry: You Came Back

You came back

Just long enough

To freshen the memories and

Unclog the tear ducts

 

You tracked in dirt

From memory lane

Leaving me

To clean up the mess

 

Thanks, a lot.

At least

I have something to write about

Again

Poetry: Come Back

You were intriguing

You were different

You smiled without

Smirking

Talked without

Boasting

Laughed without

Mocking

You were quiet

But confident

 

And I knew that it could

That it would

Fall apart—

In some way,

This was inevitable—

 

But I thought you’d come back

With arrogant shoulders

Or snarky lips

Or a laugh that reeked

With the stench of pride

 

I never imagined

That you’d come back

And still be so far away

 

It never occurred to me

That you could come back

Empty.

Poetry: Stolen Fire

I used to have a raging fire—

Crackling, dancing, bursting, writhing

Wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t calm down

It devoured and it lived

 

But I ran out of logs

But at least I still had kindling—

But I ran out of that as well

But at least I still had embers—

To hold back the looming darkness

But the wind carried each off

One by one…

Silent theif.

 

Where did that spark go?

I wonder

Fumbling in the dark

Who stole my matches?

Do they want me to freeze tonight?

When did the night

Grow so dark

And cold?

How will I get my fire back

When it never occurred to me to wonder

How the first one started?

 

How did I never notice

The importance of my fire

To beat back the night inside of me?

Poetry: The Secret of Perpetual Motion

I’ve no desire

To search for perpetual motion

No need—

I’ve already found it in a place called

High school

 

Day one, period one

Lecture, homework written down,

Passing period and now it’s period two

Lecture, some classwork, more homework to do

And now it’s period three

Discussion, some classwork, test tomorrow, need to study

You get the drift

 

Day two like day one

Three like two, and four like three

Day n+1 just the same as day n and day n-1

 

Stop thinking about today or tomorrow or goals or dreams

Just do the next thing in the pattern

 

That is the secret of perpetual motion

Poetry: Out of Nowhere

It came out of nowhere

They say

But they are the ones who taught us to be silent

 

It came out of nowhere

They say

Because we followed instructions

Until we couldn’t—

Until the dam broke

And all we could do was scream

 

It came out of nowhere

They yell

As if not seeing a problem

Means it doesn’t exist

 

It came out of nowhere

They shout

As if the shame and silence they have forced upon us

Discredits us, instead of them

 

It came out of nowhere

They scream

Louder than our own shouts

Because their voices are not hoarse

From disuse and self-exile

 

Yes,

It came out of nowhere

But it was never nothing.