poetry.
i think poetry is pretty faggoty, but when assigned it for creative writing class, i do my best.
here goes it:
———————————————————————————————
tiny monsters
tiny monsters crawl
up this appendage
tickling every fragile
blonde hair on this unknown Earth
I coyly look over at the
boy that thinks I
play hard to get
I am genuinely uninterested
the sprawling sea of ants venture
near a hem
the boy does
four quick flicks
and sends these creatures
that pepper my limb
off a cliff of flesh
to their deaths.
bzzz bzzz
it lights up,
excited like a canine
when its’ owner arrives.
a red blinking light warns
like a railroad crossing
for Little People.
all eyes dart towards my tattered desk
tiny flashes on the chipped corner
highlight deep scars from
bored students
carving obscenities into its flesh.
FUCK.
this class sucks.
M E T A L.
removing the sleek black cover
a television, but smaller-
Illuminated
like the wide opened and eager eyes
of the under-five.
it begs a glance.
“Please? Look?”
and there it was-
1 new text message.
the runner
early morning sprints suffocate her.
she tries.
she fails.
fat, lumpy Crisco.
drowning in salt water she made-
digusting, milky, cloudy sweat.
covered up in a potato sack,
her XXL tarp.
her pained expression
like a dentist was drilling at a root canal
her legs barely make an effort
feet drag across
midnight pavement
two-ton cement Lincoln logs
drudging through quick sand.
she sinks.
a half-assed escape from a mugger.
violence in sounds
he quickly brushed her lush canvas
with razorblades
gently they skip across her cheeks
creating morse code
where smooth flesh once swept
circles around her skull
soft drops of blood trickled
through cartilage
that now remained delicately
torn away
from her chiseled nostrils
she let out a yelp
his hand swam breaststrokes the air
and bounced off hers
phalanges strike again.
this time deeper,
lengthwise towards her lungs
begging her breath
to hopscotch-
double dutch-
four square-
torn hair.
elmer
spectacles frame
eyeballs that once saw quarrels
greater than ones
over petroleum
he doesn’t drive
his cane guides his way
down city streets
through metros
down tunnels
argyle socks peek out
of khaki hems
delicately laced Rockports
five years old
two soles in
button, button, button, button,
took seven minutes
to line them up
plaid confuses
a lens-aided stare
clip-on bowties
simplify
she isn’t there
to tie his tie
scanning the forest
we call a park
he picks his partner
New York Times.
