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Monica Oct 2018
Little Bo Peep
has lost her keys.
She doesn't know
where to find them.

Even more disturbing
to Little Bo Peep
is that "Peep" and "keys"
don't rhyme.
Monica Oct 2018
This is a confessional poem

but what crimes have I committed?
I have not pled
guilty or
innocent.

Maybe innocent by reason of insanity.

I am not under a lamp
in a windowless room.
No officers are grilling me.
I have nothing to hide
yet nothing to tell.

This is a confessional poem

but what are my sins?
I don't tell those to
just anyone who
asks.

I am not on my knees
in a reverential box.
There is no screen
with a priest on the other side.
I am not being
forgiven.

This is a confessional poem.

But why?
Because I use the
word
I?

All this is
is my pen, my paper,
me,
and you.

And I ain't tellin' you nothin'.
Monica Mar 2018
Why are all your books
and all of your other stuff
so **** expensive?
Monica Mar 2018
Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and turned the bright
and happy person in the mirror
into a dim and fuzzy figure?

Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and created a haze
around the things that usually
beget joy and enthusiasm.

Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and morphed the
noontime sunshine into a
perpetual twilight?

Did they turn the dial on the wall
of the world, or did they only
dim the light over the dining room
table in my own mind?

Maybe it's just me.
Monica Mar 2018
Sometimes my phone sends me an error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
My device and my mind have that in common.

Words march across pages, grabbing me and
pulling me in, but in the end I am left in
the real world with the stories I have consumed
swimming in my mind. The words are a part of me.

Tattooed on the insides of my eyelids.

When I close my eyes, I am Jo March.
I have sold my hair. It was my one beauty.
Beauty is important because my sisters and
I are supposed to be Little Women.

When I close my eyes, I am Sal Paradise.
Dean Moriarty and I talk for hours.
We dig everything from New York to
‘Frisco, as we continue On the Road.

When I close my eyes, I am Lizzy Bennet.
Mr. Darcy has snubbed my family and myself,
and I hate him. But I love him. If only the two of
us weren’t filled with such Pride and Prejudice.

When I close my eyes, I am Hermione Granger.
I am the brightest witch of my age, and only I
have read Hogwarts, A History. Without me,
there probably would be no Harry Potter.

When  I close my eyes, I see the error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
So I open my eyes.

Who am I?
Monica Mar 2018
Shout into the void and your
words will become binary code.
Stay on this screen for a minute
and wait for the picture to load.

It’s a picture of dystopia. 280 characters
give us the power to create or to destroy.
Short, angry blasts are our Orwellian lingua
franca with the virtual hoi polloi.

Threads that were for weaving and sewing
are now for lacing into those who
disagree, and sowing seeds of doubt and
anger to incite a riot behind you.

There is only one mind on this
site, there is only one thought.
It’s about “like” at first sight, and
not about love, like we’re taught.

Do you see it? Is it clear?
We have become our words.
It’s difficult to admit, but we should
leave the tweeting to the birds.
Monica Nov 2017
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
A minute till the show feels like it is a year.
Fools rush in, but you’re fearful of your tread.
Your TV’s black and white, but Lucy’s hair is red.

The cover is destroyed, the book not rifled through.
Those eyes convey a lie, those lips insist it’s true.
Her face is so serene, but her heart has run amok.
He’s doing it all right, but he’s never felt so stuck.

The dress looks old fashioned, but it is in fact on trend.
There’s an ellipsis in the air…
but a period at the end.
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