paperback prodigy

Hello

My name is Casey

And I am a poet… was a poet

I am at 217 days

I haven’t written a good poem in 217 days

Don’t be mistaken

I have tried

Some of you have even heard them

These attempts at grandiose ideas

Political warfare waged in half hearted prose

Uniformed and Uninformed

I think what happened

Was that 217 days ago I got hurt

I let the paper cut my fingers

I made myself bleed

Only to remember that I had a heart

In the poetic sense full of love

In the real sense

Racing

Pumping fast through me

Because I hate microphones like this one

And poems like that one

One’s about Him

With a capital H

Not the godly kind

No he is far lower trust me

And ironically

Not hot

Despite his proximity to hell

It makes me feel so helpless

So at the mercy of the many

That anyone

Aside myself

Should influence my art

And take up space in my own skewed record book

I have written down ideas

I have honestly tried I swear

I will show you the post it’s and returned tests

The scribbles

In the last 5,208 hours

I have written things

Quick notes of passion

Like

Butterflies drink turtle tears

I want to go back to the flowers

The eskimos had over 100 words for snow

Adam bit the apple because he trusted Eve

Desolate reflection sustains me

Buzz Aldrin took communion on the moon

How long until it doesn’t count?

My title I mean

Slam poet

Is it 217 days

No it can’t be

No

I promise

Give me one more

24 hours

What’s 24 to 5,000

Let me slice open my palm with this pen

I’ll show you

That I still have ink left in me

I can do it

I did it before

10,000 hours I have to be

At 10,000 hours by now

The words will come

I cry

My sobriety chip

Staring back from my hand

How many days?

Before I am nothing more than

What the kids are calling a sell out

217

It should be a badge of honor

I am no longer the most annoying person at the party

The girl with a hobby that earns an “oh wow” from the audience

The one who calls herself a writer

Even though

Her grammar is wrong and her words

Aren’t capitalized

Of all my vices I love this one the most

And hate it the best

The way it preserves me

But only at my worst

The last 217 days

Weren’t bad ones

But they won’t last

Because I won’t let them

Maybe at 220 I’ll light a candle

Blow it out

And celebrate the death of a career I wasn’t planning on having

Or maybe I’ll grow up

Give up

And stop writing about the 217 days

I used to eat straight slabs

before they meant calories and thicker thighs

When they only meant salty flavoring

and that my eggs wouldn’t stick to the pan

I ask the concierge at the counter to get extra butter in the middle of my popcorn.

Some part of me hopes my fingers get drenched

So that if you reach for me

I’ll slip right out of your grasp

with only a kernel and a handprint to show for my presence

And that if you kiss me

you’ll taste like my favorite place

How is life?

“We’re worried about you.”

Is everything going well?

“You need to call your mom.”

How does your day typically go?

“You have to get out of bed,”

What is your favorite hobby?

“Complaining without capitalization doesn’t make you a poet.”

What is your least favorite hobby?

“Sleeping isn’t a coping skill.”

What is your favorite color?

“You just seem blue.”

What do you think about the world?

“It could always be worse, people out there are really suffering.”

What is your favorite holiday?