FRUIT

(escapril day 16- bearing fruit)

She held up grey, bruised palms
Empty.
Wrapped in shame,
Deep heaviness behind her eyes,
Circles under eyes
Like shadow moons
She stares at her hands often
Covered in dirt,
She half expects a flower to sprout from them one day
Half hopes
Half dreams
Glass half full or empty?
How can anyone be sure?
It's empty to her
Especially when all she can bear
Is nothing

HEAVEN

(escapril day 11- heaven/hell)

Sometimes, I wonder when heaven will come
And sometimes,
I wonder if it ever will
Most of the time, I feel cold
Like a sad song on a loop
The kind that slows your heartbeat
Until you think it might stop
Because,
Every day I disappoint myself
And wonder when something
Might make me feel again
Because,
Maybe this is heaven
But I don't feel it.
Mostly,
Because I don't feel you.

PARASITE

(escapril day 10- parasitic)

I think of the way we so often grab on to people or things so parasitically. Unapologetically. Selfishly. Killing what we love most, ever so softly and slowly. For me, it was the dream. Latched onto it with so much riding on it that if it died, I must surely die too. It might've flourished if I had given it air. And time. For all I know, it could be a whole garden by now, rows of blush springtime flowers in full blossom. But I wanted it too badly, and the time was not right. And I cried and begged it to stay, and wept as it breathed its last breath and slipped away, out of reach, my fingers still grasping for what I knew I had already lost.

***

I missed posting a few days on the blog, but here is day 10 (one day late). This one took me a long time. When I first heard the prompt, I thought it was really interesting, but found myself sitting for nearly an hour before coming up with something concrete. It didn't go where I thought it would, which I think is for the best in this case. Soon, I hope to write something that talks a little bit about me and my journey as a writer, as well as the things that inspire me. It will probably be after escapril, but its something to look forward to.

MIRROR

(escapril day 5- the view from up here)

Shattered mirror below me
21 broken pieces for 21 broken years
Gave your heart away many of them
Deeply pierced each time
Too grateful,
Sickly forgiving,
Soft. Sweet. Kind.
Undeserving and they know it

You've trusted me
I've given you much, you tell them
But I see you.
I see your questions become fears,
Ghosts morph into monsters
21 years
Give me until 22
And I will put you together
Piece
By piece

EARTH

(escapril day 4- earthly pleasures)

The tender wildflower stretches skyward midst a golden field. Most days, the warmth of daylight is enough for her, but as it turns to dusk, she often finds herself longing for glittering stars and free birds. She wishes to be one with the sky, but how can she?
The crag on the mountain stands alone. He feels each storm before all else, soaks in the drops one by one. He longs to sway to the rhythm of the rain, but he must remain stalwart, for that is the nature of his creation.
The tumbling waterfall sprays a rainbow mist over the mossy rocks below her, into the gentle pond. She envies his stillness and tranquility while he marvels at her strength and majesty above him.

I wonder about myself, sometimes. If I am so soft, can I be so strong? I am kind, but I wish to be fierce. Feeling so inadequate, could I ever be so brilliant?

I wonder, about myself sometimes. What is the nature of my creation?

LOVER

(escapril day 3- is anyone listening?)

"I like to listen to you."

Rustle of sheets turning to face you

Lull of sighs when I sleep

Click of the door when I wake up first

Scratch of pen on tattered paper

Breathing too hard when I finally get home

Shower water- drip, drip- off my body

Gently, barefoot across the floor

Song bleeding out my headphones,

Drinking afternoon sunlight

Soft kiss on your eyelids

You do listen

And you do truly

Know me

FLOWER

(escapril day 2- growth/decay)

FLOWER

Soft

Petals like armor

Spring forth

From dust

Dark, wet earth

Littered with poisons

All manner

Of dead things

Compost, soil, sand

Green sprig first

Twisting upward

In the sweetest strength

Will not be

Anything

Less than beauty

Note: I wrote this poem last night in a hurry before going to bed... because I went to bed at 3am (not wise, by the way. Why do I do this to myself?) I wanted to get something on paper with the clear vision I had, and thought that by coughing up some lines, I'd have something I could edit and play with before getting it up on the blog. Weirdly enough, I'm quite in love with this hurried, 3am poem. It has the exact rhythm and voice I had imagined. The more I think about writing, I realize I really struggle with- no, hate- editing my poetry. I always read it over and change a word or two. If its not working, it's not working and I rework the entire piece. Does this make me a good or bad writer? For my creative writing college class a few semesters ago, we were asked to bring an old piece of work to edit. I edited one of my favorite poems I've ever written, "Wondering" and felt like I was betraying myself in the process. I know I am not perfect and am always looking to grow- I welcome critiques and realize I am a novice poet, but I feel as if there is a fine line between making something too "perfect" and appreciating the rawness of a first drafts.

(Also have to acknowledge Hayley William's new solo project, Petals for Armor as inspiration here. Her musical aesthetic for the project was my first thought when hearing the prompt)