Future Poetess Of The Masses
my eyes are manholes;
avoided, like the beggar on the street corner
in need of change.
"Your eyes are actually man bait,
even if you are not fishing for a compliment,
any beggar on the corner,
or even in fine castles
as well as this artis himself
were he blest with younger flesh
would dream of getting lost in them
longing for much more than quarter
of your endless wealth.
as you pass them by."
he is ignored
and I am cold too,
with four blankets gift-wrapped
under my skin.
"He is ignored because he spent his glory
in the dregs of bottles drained.
you have only been glorious 15 years,
since you last drained bottles,
warmed by mother's love.
Innocence is an unlit fire,
you will be cold until passions
burn bright, and the blankets
still unused that occupy your heart
will warm others four score and then some."
These hands do not work well anymore.
they touch last years skin like a lonely sigh
with stories to tell, of a heart
with no more glued-on love to spare,
just dirty laundry under blankets
and a blue bicycle with wheels that spin
to the sound of 'I want to go home'.
"You will know much more sorrow and loneliness,
at fifteen, the pain is but training wheels,
for the big ride on a Harley through hell.
Your hands will learn to work the brakes
of despair, and the accelerator of sheer joy.
lonely sighs will be backwashed
in the breathlessness of worlds
yet to explore before you go home."
I am a battery, uncharged;
you breathe in my positives
and spit out negatives.
you are a three am fire alarm, loud
and I am forced to peel my dreams from pillows
and stumble down the stairs, only to hear
'it's too cold to be outside these days,
will you let me back in?'
you make it rain
and my eyelashes do not
make good windshield-wipers anymore.
"You will be an energizer, your poetry already
stimulates electrical synapses in the minds of many,
you are some bunny loved for dreams peeled
from pillows to scripted thoughts to pages read.
some will be tear stained, we all suffer for the art,
it makes it all the more precious when it is written.
lash out and let the salt spray fly,
you inhabit others dreams now, your words
take them to places they can only wish
they had known."
I lean over the sink,
eyes dragged towards the mirror
where a girl with goosebumps and water-colour eyes,
with handlebar clavicles and cellophane skin
supports her weight on wrists
as if something inside
has lost consciousness
because you have found yourself
somewhere among sad songs,
cream acrylic paintings
and six-sided stars,
"Let your life, your pain and your joy, be a mirror,
that sends goosebumps over the reader's flesh,
let pigments of your water coloured visions,
dancing lightly from your wrist,
create a lost and found for other conciousnesses,
to peer into the cellophane skin of your poetic heart.
they will find answers that elude you,
but touch the darkened spaces of their own souls.
let sad songs wail, joyous bliss cavort,
fingerpaint smiles, in ink stained endeavors,
until your star becomes stellar,
and all the world makes wishes on you."
"Be the torch that I pass,
to younger poets,
as my years slip like mercury splashed
across the vast void of what was.
and know that even after only 12 months
you are loved for the spells you
have checked and then cast here."
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
to boot. Best to you in the contest but for me this was so much more!
