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Literature Text
this poem is a virus,
so be careful not to let it
touch you
like the soft fingertips
of a wide-eyed girl on
your lips, silent as if
to say, shhh, do you hear
this great thing between us,
this aching nothingness
in which my heart lingers
and stutters?
and oh, how it stutters.
us - us-us- he - and i. me and
him. we. us.
she is like a singer when
she laughs, speaks in recitatives
like she has an audience (you),
quivers in her bones
when you touch her.
(there is just this girl and
her hand on your face and her
wide, wide eyes and there's
nothing more you could ever
want, nothing at all)
so be careful not to let it
touch you
like the soft fingertips
of a wide-eyed girl on
your lips, silent as if
to say, shhh, do you hear
this great thing between us,
this aching nothingness
in which my heart lingers
and stutters?
and oh, how it stutters.
us - us-us- he - and i. me and
him. we. us.
she is like a singer when
she laughs, speaks in recitatives
like she has an audience (you),
quivers in her bones
when you touch her.
(there is just this girl and
her hand on your face and her
wide, wide eyes and there's
nothing more you could ever
want, nothing at all)
Literature
Hollow
Here amidst the bones bleached white,
the echoes become trapped in ribcages
like a heartbeat.
But it’s just a sound.
No blood pumps through the
marrow thick like
baby’s breath-
flowers for someone who is sick or dying or
dead.
No light shines
under the skin and muscle.
How dark it must be for the
delicate, fleshy bits underneath.
The lungs don’t know when it’s time to
go. No moon to guide them.
How do they know when to
stop?
Does the heart even know the color
of blood?
Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
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my audition piece for #poetry-book's scratch that contest! 
© 2012 - 2024 forestmeetwildfire
Comments14
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flows nice.
I liked:
and oh, how it stutters.
us - us-us- he - and i. me and
him. we. us.
good luck with the contest
I liked:
and oh, how it stutters.
us - us-us- he - and i. me and
him. we. us.
good luck with the contest