Needs work. I guess that with 30 poems in a month, you have to expect a few bad ones. And I've still got 20 left. This is more daunting than I originally expected.
______________________-
It just takes
half moments
half glances
half moons,
splinters in my
sides -
some days I just feel like
a book of really bad poetry
trying to be published,
written by some smaller me
just scribbling words, all
of which come out as
love me
love me
love me
please.
It’s pretty bad,
but I guess she wasn’t.
Here I am, the product of
those poems, I carved them
and they sculpted me, and
we’re all pretty
rough around the edges, smudged
from those pencil lines; I can’t read
half of these.
When I was younger, looking up
from hours of writing to adjust my eyes
to the sun, I must have blinked at a future
different from this one, crisp and clear
in my mind’s eye.
I spent a lot of time pressed into
abandoned notebooks, written
impermanently because I was so
afraid of staying where I was
I figured that one day, there would be
moments I’d want to forget -
we all want to forget, make room
in our buzzing brains; I’ve got a beehive
filled with sweet and golden beauty,
larvae,
and stingers,
poetry and
papercuts
salvation and
neglect,
a queen and
a drone,
work and
expect
work and
expect
love and
be loved -
some days I wish
that girl was gone,
that girl who wrote,
again and again,
hear me
get me
love me
like a buzzing mantra, like
oooooooom.
She’s still blinking
into a future but
written in pen.
oooooom.
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