#versewriting

I met them six years ago

Long before your entrance

You disgusting thing.

I reigned supreme—

Lord of this castle, unopposed

Then you came.

Tearing worlds apart

Charming them with innocence

And chubby cheeks.

At six, my slender grace remains.

At six months, you are graceless,

Oblivious to my authority.

They called me Polonius

Because I was cultured, refined

You wouldn’t know about that.

In time you might earn your name

Peter—it means rock—

Far removed from your mush,

A personality softer than your head.

I balance on your crib,

Gazing in horrified wonder.

You sleep, unaware of the danger

I represent, but for now

I tiptoe, lie down next to you

Satisfied you’ve been neutralized.

They find us in the morning—

Cuddled and content, it seems.

The professor asks us which race is the worst one. I know my answer immediately, but I should probably try

Playing it cool, as if the other students had no idea the kind of thoughts that went through my

Mind in that second. They were images of horror, of pain, long past but still vividly remembered by

My body. It's been through too much, enduring things that no one ever should. I question why

They did this to me. What made me the object of their torture? Money can't buy

A lot of things, especially the important ones like hope, love, security. I could lie

And say I'm fine with my past, the sins against us all. But by

Pretending it never happened, I'm silencing my struggles, my pain, my suffering. Tie

A string around your finger, never forget the awful things that guy

Said to me, convincing me to run with him. A pie,

He promised, would come soon enough. A towel to dry

My sweat and tears was all I had, dye

Dripping from my hair, the perfect look high

On his list of priorities. I sigh.

Running an actual marathon was my

Worst decision. Struggling to fly,

The end draws nigh.

I can't cry,

So I

An English major knows his Poe from Twain;

Numeric acrobatics aren’t his thing.

Encapsulating thoughts—a single quatrain

Naively placed may still preserve its ring.

Gazebos steal the show for pretty places;

Lazuli buntings steal the show for birds.

Incessant questions flung from eager faces

So mark the English majors by their words.

He wants to write like Shakespeare; now he’s drunk,

More inspiration flows. He turns pedantic,

And argues music, Beethoven to punk.

Just don’t get started; now it’s all semantic. 

Overtly flirting? Thought I’d miss it, didja?  

Bitch, be not proud, though some have feared you;

They think you’re scary, but that’s just not true.

Though you may think that you’re sexy and bad,

You cried during WALL-E; you’re not that rad.

You talk big game, as if we should be scared,

But it’s just because no one ever cared.

Your parents were rarely even around,

And instead of smiling, they only frowned.

You felt like a burden; it’s not your fault,

But now you keep your heart locked in a vault.

When someone finally opens it one day,

Your world will have colors, not just black and gray.

And on that day, when your pain turns to art,

Maybe you’ve heard about this. Maybe not.

Enquire further if you would like to see me

misplace aggression where it lies so softly

evoking anger as I clench my fist.

So sweetly sipping tea, I eat my cake

and think of how I chose it over death.

Remember how we used to love when Biden

elaborated all his plans for Trump?

Misspelled and unfounded your threats abound.

You shall not pass by here. Abandon hope

lest you be given up, for evil frogs might

indoctrinate you into all their shady,

fortuitous, adventurous diversions.

Monotony and tragedy are one;

Both from the writer’s pen or pencil flow.

Though some may say the two are day and night,

Not all of us can handle pain so well.

And pain may come from one or both of these,

Though often pain is somewhat less distinct;

It creeps into our minds while we’re asleep,

And lingers there, unnoticed by the rest.

While boredom leads to many evil things,

Perhaps the worst of all may go unseen;

When we surrender to monotony,

It steals our breath and empties minds of life.

Thus, tragedy is not reserved for plays,