Month: February 2017

worth in different worlds

freshly sixteen
and attempting to be deep.
the mind of a poet
is self-appraising.

confidence falters
at the worst of times, crushed
sentences and nervous stutter
perpetuating the blush-

yet when she puts nose to paper
she inflates herself,
makes herself grander
than she could ever be [in public]

get the point across verbally,
using cliché as hyperbole
-more chatter, less grammar-
unintelligible.

poets are observers
not participators,
and by now- no longer fifteen-
she should know it.

–

written m22aug2011.

–

metaphorically you

i sit at my mother’s table,
taking apart the roses father sent me
[happy sweet sixteenth, honey]

big-headed idols of the flowerfae,
gaia-sent and humankind-picked
[this is the classic, this is the girl we will blow up]

they’re dried up, twelve days after
the outside shriveled, some old maid
past her prime, past rose-bouquet days

i peel back the layers of the tough façade,
[alogotrophic, pitifully decrepit]
like slivers of lost hopes and ‘i-told-you-so’s,
and watch it bloom again, rebirthing

and realizing soon after that the inner things
are often the youngest, the most delicate;
the truth, and we must protect them
duly, with withered indifference

–

written w10aug2011.

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