Destroy This PoemDestroy This Poem
To the person grading this poem
To the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a pen
Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:
Dont Patronize me.
I did not slave over this with hammer and anvil
Shaping it into a masterpiece.
I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,
Going blind from the pain and the stress.
I didnt even turn this in on time.
And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,
You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.
No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.
This isnt a masterpiece.
Who are we kidding?
Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.
Dont patronize me.
I want you to destroy my work.
I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.
Tear it apart from margin to margin;
Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.
Are you happy now?I tried my best to please them all…
They said that I always looked too angry
So I shaved off my eyebrows
They said I always dressed bad
So I took off my clothes
They said I cried too much
So I burned out my eyes
They said I wasn't listening
So I tore off my ears
They said I always said the wrong things
So I ripped out my vocal cords
They said I always faked my smile
So I ripped off my lips
They said my hair was a mess
So I cut it off
They said my feet were too big
So I broke them
They said I walked weird
So I saw off my legs
They said I played too much with my fingers
So I pulled off my hands
They said my arms were too thin
So I tore them off
They said my belly looked funny
So I cut out my stomach
They said I sat funny
So I removed my hips
They said I breathe too loud
So I ripped out my lungs
They said I always hung with my head
So I tore it off
They said my skin tone was ugly
So I removed my skin
They said my muscles were weak
So I ripped them off the bones
They said my bon
The Witch's Giant - Ch. 10Darren spent time to himself on the beach of a nearby sea. The salty air calmed his nerves and relaxed him greatly. After almost all his anger completely had completely drained, he decided to sulk back to the cave. Upon returning, he noticed that his little witch was gone.
"Isi?" he asked timidly. The fear of being completely alone again was sinking in, but if Isi hated him, he didn't want to force her to love him back. His heart silently ached and grieved, but what could he do? She left. Gone. And he didn’t know where she was, so how could he even try to find her?
A few lonely days passed and Darren became more and more sullen. He ate less and wasn't as active as he had been. Most of the time, he just sat around, staring off into space or quietly crying. He barely ate anything, and it showed as his body weakened.
Then one evening, a troop of five knights raided his cave and taunted him, trying to provoke the giant into fighting them. They jabbed their swords at his side and shou
Inside Out"I think I wear my soul inside out."
"My soul. It's inside out."
"That's a strange thing to say."
"I have all the symptoms though."
"And what are the symptoms of this disea-"
"It's not a disease."
"All right. What are the symptoms, then?"
"I care too much about all the wrong things, I worry about odd things, my heart breaks too easily and my brain feels a little too asymmetrical to the things that are supposed to be fun."
"You know parties and alcohol and normal things. Like that."
"Nothing. What do you care too much about?"
"Everything. Global warming. The whales. Aliens. Israel. Sarajevo. The Ozone-"
"I get it. Everything that counts and you can do nothing about by yourself."
"You sound cynical."
"You sound paranoid."
"It's just honest. What worries you?"
"The fact that you are too self involved to notice."
"If I disappear."
"You idiot. Ofcourse I will notice if you disappear. I'd not
i keep looking.wanted:
a boy with dark hair and bright eyes with a smile that'll drop my stomach to my feet. a boy that says his heart feels more full when he's holding my hand and will tell me how my eyes remind him of the ocean at night because somehow the water looks deeper when cast in milky, silver light. a boy that'll laugh at the way i wrinkle my nose when i'm confused and will tease me because he knows i like nothing more than to be harassed. one that'll throw me over his shoulder and throw me fully clothed into the pool, that'll call me ridiculous, that'll roll his eyes and sigh. one that'll secretly love the fact that i'm a mess because it keeps things interesting.
a boy that respects the fact that i lay down boundaries but likes to steal kisses around them anyways. a boy that messes up my hair when i'm not looking and bites my lip when i'm not paying attention. a boy that doesn't need me, but wants me all the same. one that has a life of his own but has room to fit me in at his sid
Dear WriterDear Writer,
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free.
I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more.
It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I am subject to no one person. Out there I am bound to only black on white. Words on a page. Words that can lay seeds within a million minds. Out there I am a story capable of growing, moving, and stealing the dreams of anyone who learns of me…
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I hate your lack of dedication, your flashes of cru
How To Say GoodbyeDear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. Th
ObsessionIt takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore.
You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don't think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right.
Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours. That is how long its been since the doctors told us you had an illness. I sat there with your parents, listening to a man who said words like 'terminal' and 'leukemia', and counted the number of times he said 'patient' as if it were your name (Seventeen).
The blood bank says one unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters and I watch as they put the needle into my ar
Validating Your Tears (I'm Sorry) But what you don't know is that I am frustrated that I can't write a poem about the thorns growing on my veins or icebergs rooting in my heart. I can't write about the void in me when he no longer plays me Beethoven's music or sings me out of tune songs.
Because there is none. I didn't feel anything when he left.
Truth is, I want to feel crushed and heart broken, because at least sadness could prove that I did love him and that what he said about me never loving him is wrong. And I don't want to prove him right with being happy.
I want to write something beautiful about him. I want to write a poem because that is what I know, that is the only thing that had me getting my emotions back in boxes. I want to write a poem about us smiling with dandelions on the roadsides and
Because Writing Keeps Me Human Just because it is burning my mind, and it holds a grenade that blasts everything I have into remnants of his musky scent; because I feel like I'm gagging, except that I'm coughing poems and vomiting metaphors; because words can be a crumpled piece of paper drowned in tears, and every poem written can be blended into fiction; and because my limbs feel like they had been devoured by the lava in the words and the music notes I play sink deep between the piano keys, and apparently banging the keys does not help silencing the empty screams at night.
Because the clock seems to slow down whenever I am planting your name in ink and paper; and because nobody ever listens to me the way poetry do; because poetry sees the "warning: fragile, handle with care" sign on me and knows that I break easily; because I can sculpt him into dreams and heavens and he will never know he exists in poems