literature

This Poem is a Lame Horse

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Literature Text

This poem looks
Like your favorite shirt that shrank after the wash
Like a pile of unwashed dishes
It looks not ready but red-ish
It looks not sexy but sex anyway (with the lights off)
Like unintentional swollen bellies
It looks like moldy cheese and running ink.
It looks like yellow teeth smiles by intoxicated men.

This poem sounds
Like that asshole that honks his horn outside your window at 2 AM.
Like your significant other telling you “they want to talk”
Like a pocket watch that stops ticking
Like the clicking of tight, tight handcuffs
Like a heart monitor that hiccups and sings a single, slurred note
It sounds like weeping mothers and amber alerts
It sounds like loud highways and catcalls.

This poem tastes
Like “surprise” middle school cafeteria food
Like burning your tongue on seemingly-innocent hot chocolate
Like an apple that is a little too soft and a little too stale
It tastes… bitter
Like an unwanted night with a horny boy and Captain Morgan
It tastes like sour grapes
It tastes like salty tears.

This poem smells
Like the smoke coming from your oven when your cookies turn into accidental igneous rock
Like the aromatic slice of cheesecake you left untouched because you’re looking out for your figure
Like the sickly sweet reek of flowers at a funeral
Like stale bread and cigarette breath
It smells like sticky rain
It smells like greedy lips

This poem feels
Like drinking cold tea that was supposed to be hot but you forgot about it (and you don’t want to be wasteful)
Like wondering where your abs are after doing fifteen sit ups
Like cotton mouth and sandpaper tongues
Like the soreness in your arm after a vaccination
Like putting off homework and having panic attacks trying to finish it
Like an hourglass on its last grains of sand
Like falling into a cactus
Like scratching a mosquito bite until it bleeds
Like losing your childhood pet and your childhood innocence
Like leaving food on your plate even though you’re still hungry
Like frustration
Like acid in your throat
Like broken fingernails and ripped tights,
Shriveled lungs and burning eyes

This poem is regret and bad decisions.
This poem is a wrong turn.
This poem is a bad tattoo.
This poem is everything that needs to be forgotten:
Painful memories and cloudy skies
And candy wrappers that won’t come off goddammit

What this poem is not
Is an excuse to stop trying.
It isn't a reason to keep your blinds closed
It may be a reason to want to cry but not a reason to want to die because
You just can’t tell yet that the sun is coming out.
Because even something as grand as the ancient sun
Is allowed to have an existential crisis every now and then
It will come out.
It always does.

In conclusion, fuck this poem.
Let your feelings be the booms of fireworks resonating in your chest instead
Let your smells be grandma’s house because she’ll never let the cookies burn
Yearn for that first icy inhale on the first day of winter weather
And taste the satisfaction of loving yourself for whoever you are
Because your worth isn't measured by those who cannot love you—
Love yourself instead.
Force your ears to hear the good and sing over the bad
(even if it’s out of tune)
Open your [rib]cage and free your heart.
Allow your damaged lungs to burst into constellations.
Because even after a long and sleepless night,
The world still wants you to find happiness.

Stop staring at the walls.
Look at the sunrise.
I went to a poetry slam yesterday and felt inspired. I strongly recommend seeing spoken word live :)
© 2014 - 2024 circumsolem
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