A piece of chalk writing words on the sidewalk.
The author in unknown as the words breathe life.
It screams to be noticed, and changes it colors,
but the rain has thoughts of its own.
It pours down on the prose of a piece of chalk,
and washes it along the gutter where it disappears
into the sewer.
The sun will later shine, and bid the rain farewell.
The chalk will come again, on another street
with another unknown author to write once again.
Hear the symphony of the room you surround yourself with.
Have you already heard this song?
Sip your current State.
Do you like it?
How now a brown cow.
Are you even listening?
Pass your homework to the front of the class.
Were you daydreaming again?
the lulls of fog hug close
to the hips of the hills
in the soaked grass
and the sighs of February
the styrofoam sticks
burned to the roots,
compact in the cracks
of the sidewalk so packed
into my memory
and the powdered
on the base of my tongue
the hooves of fog
they dance between the trees
bucking at the thunder
at the bursting
of my anticipation
It wasn't too long ago when I last saw you
But forever is an overwhelming state of mind
See, all emotions are transferrable to expression
It's not by force
But by watching the spool roll down the hallway and unwind
I could never roll it back up
So I learned how to knit
You learn adaptation, and to control your mind
Energies can take harsh tolls
On the stamina of your patience
So just stop thinking from time to time.
the spaces between my ribs
ive reserved for you
please fill them with love
and bind me with your glue
the glue you made from blood
of past girls you robbed
when you promised them the world
and left them dislodged
the powder of my bones
chalked into the earth
writing your name in greys and whites
and weighing up our worth
now im just a shell
writing words to ghosts
these words that no one seems to hear
im your lifeless loveless hoax
Tell me your favorite fears
I can take it.
Throw me away.
to come back.
Cuts in my soul
like chalk on my sidewalk
where they once were.
striking the stone.
Marks are so easily made.
colors wash away
Sliding wounds were patched
up with concession stand napkins.
Wads of Big League Chew formed
a mosaic beneath the bench
and smelled like apple cherry.
Spat-out sunflower seed trim
lined the cracking cinder block walls
and became the popular hiding spot
for hair ties and M&Ms.; Lead
paint peeled from the walls in strips
like the white chalk lines
of the diamond beyond the fence.
I'm a cloud of useless waste of particles.
I float freely, I fall slowly.
I'm a useless dust of chalk. Wasted.
What is my purpose?
After my knowledge?
After I have made my marks on the board?
What am I bound to do?
After I sit steady in the cold, dark place that I stain? That I ruin?
I'm a useless powdered material.
I stay stationary, I move slightly.
I'm a useless left over matter of chalk. Unimportant.
No appreciation for my knowledge.
No notice for my wisdom.
Is my purpose to be unseen?
Is my purpose to irritate eyes and wreck souls?
I'm a chalk dust in a dark, cold corner...
Soliloquy is my game.
What I play. every time. everyday
Intentionally left behind,
By my knowledge, my wisdom, my faith, my truth.
I vanish, and I flourish and I fly.
I'm a chalk dust with no purpose.
And so, the soul had fled the existing body.
And in the end, I see...
My useless soul, my life...
The day I turned nine, I hiked up
my honeysuckle tutu, and raced
to find you –
there, sprawled out on the hissing
asphalt driveway, with precise strokes of neon
sidewalk chalk, you were writing the words
“I love you.”
We dotted our names with lop-
sided stars and scribbled
stick-figured versions of ourselves years and years
in the future. And when the first zig-
zagged bolt crossed the sky, we screamed
and then laughed, loud
barking laughs at the heavy raindrops.
The night I turned twenty, I cried
myself to sleep, and tucked the paper under
my crocheted blanket. With eyes
closed, I counted the colors behind my lids –
three, four, a kaleidoscope.
Your name still appeared though
– inky, blurring into the foreground,
along with that childhood chalk.
Shots raining from the sky are moving so rapidly.
You stare as they fall right towards you.
It's right in front of your eyes the bullet that'll end you.
Time has stopped and there is nothing you can do.
You are paralyzed as you stare the bullet down.
You're down, it's over, and time starts again.
Your mind flowed from your head riding with the blood.
It stained the pavement and you watched from above.
Your shooter was there looking at your body.
Then he left, and you were alone.
When you were found the next day a chalk line was drawn.
That was all that was left, no one knew you.
The chalk outline was you waiting on the pavement.
Need the rain to wash you away so you could leave this place.
But it keeps you there and you're not leaving.
They left you there as a chalk outline, as if that summed you up.
You're the only person who died there.
But you are just remembered as a person who died.
That spot is you.
That bullet is you.
That shooter is you.
That chalk outline is you.
You left your own chalk outline because you couldn't walk away.
Especially when you needed to.
That is being shown to the entire world.
Forget all the kind words.
They tried to help you.
But you wouldn't listen.
Now look at where you are.
You're the chalk outline.
Don't deny it.