As April starts Global Poetry Writing Month, I figured I’d kick off the month with a poem of my own. The prompt comes from raeonpaper:
the moon’s yearning whisper.
The deterioration of her internal language
results in an abject pleading,
a fullness only seen from behind the gauze
of cloud,
the thin of cloth, the shape of pregnancy.
A moon’s desolate murmur.
She speaks in a low tone,
too soft for most,
yet those who listen
know.
Unable to sleep,
I think of the funerals I did not attend,
the lovers whose names I have since
forgotten,
colognes which once reduced me
to ash,
and now I lie awake, still,
in this carousel of grief.
My body a war zone, my mind
a racuous storm –
I pick up a paintbrush,
I turn to my typewriter.
I begin to write your name
(in calligraphy)
because logophilia runs in my veins
and ink is in my blood.
A poetry prompt from elenaspoetry, “a letter to my stranger self”.
You grew and shrank like that girl
in Wonderland.
Drink me, eat me, taste me.
But nobody knew what to expect of you.
You were constantly shifting to be who they wanted,
but
they weren’t satisfied.
One day,
you looked in a mirror
and dissolved
into a million pieces,
breaking apart and yet unrecognizable
as a stranger is.
You thought you’d finally know yourself
underneath all those layers,
but the truth is
you’d hidden away so long,
you had become unfamiliar to even you.
I wish I could remind you
of who you were,
but I’m only now starting to unravel the girl underneath.
She is lovely, searching, yet
something phenomenal nonetheless.
If you see her,
let her know I’m looking for her
too.
A misreading of a prompt from Kody Granger: a hollow heart.
She carved out a space to make it home.
She crafted a village inside, and yet
each time they hurt her,
her anguish made her burrow
further inside a place
nobody decided to look,
no one bothered to explore
deeper until it was thought empty,
deeper until it was thought vacant,
deeper still until they accused her
of having a hollow heart.
Did you decide that winter
is your vanishing season?
That the frost is where you take your leave?
I have starved on less,
but you swore I wouldn’t be hungry
this January.
So, why do all my pockets have holes
and my heart vacates like a hotel room
after a weeklong conference?
So, why am I alone, holding hands
with memories and begging stars
to tell you
goodbye doesn’t mean forever?
Isabelle Palerma 