The Warning Label On This Brand Of Poetry,
Must Read
“Keep Out Of The Reach Of Children”
Because It Seems Like An Age Requirement Is Required To Open My Mouth Here.
You See, I Was Born And Raised In The Hallways Of This Body,
Theres A Recollection Of Every Year Of My Growth, On Each Edge Of This Skin, Like A Story Book, Read Me Like A Map,
And Tell Me
In My Short Seventeen Years Of Life, If I've Seen Enough Lifetimes Yet.
If I Don’t Speak With Enough Dignity, Or Grit, Or Sometimes - Just Bared Jawed, Teeth Snapping, Hell Fire.
Tell Me, If My Lips Can’t Curl Into The Same Kind Of Snarl Yours Can,
Or If My Blood Stream Isn't Pumping The Same Mixture Of Insalvageable Sudden Sacrificial Suicidal Need.
I've Gotten Welcomed Into Enough Rooms, Warmed Up Mics Until They Were Hot Enough To Burn My Lips, And I Keep Coming Back.
If I Wasn't Addicted To This Stage, Like Some Sort Of Divinity Gone Wrong, If I Can’t Remember What It Feels Like To Not Need Anymore.
Tell Me I’m Not A Poet.
I’m Less Than Six Months Away From My Eighteenth Birthday.
As If Something Inside My Bones Will Change Between Then, And Now, As if The Home Of My Body Will Suddenly Be Capable Of Carrying More, If Now That I Can Smoke My Lungs Black, Marlboro Cigarette Shaped Scar Burns, Onto The Backs Of My Hands, If The Ability To Buy ****, Or Tattoo Every Inch Of Exposed Skin,
Would Make Me Any More Of An Adult.
You Better Hope I Never Become One.
It’ll Be A Day I Will Chase In The Opposite Direction,
Don’t Say I’m Running From It.
So No, I Don’t Want To Grow Up.
This Peter Pan, Neverland, Is More Honest Than You Will Ever Realize.
Chase Me.
Catch This If You Can.
I Won’t Write Poetry About Every Ounce of My Undiscovered Tragedy,
I’ll Remind You
That My Seventeen Years Have Gifted Me With Sweet Suffering, Like a Character Building Beauty,
But I’ll Be The First To Tell You That
Me,
And This World Don’t Know One Another Too Well Yet.
So I’ve Got A Long Time, To Write Out My Best Stories, Pull Them, From Inside The Depths Of This Monstrosity, And Give Them Life.
One For Mother’s **** Addiction.
Two For Her No Note Suicide Attempt,
Three For Her Blue Lips When I Woke Up Beside Her,
Four For The Way My Father Has Never Given Up On Me,
Five For Scars I Shouldn't Have Given Myself,
Six For The Way I’m Still Here In Front Of You,
And
Seven For The Story I Haven’t Told Yet.
So Know I Am Seen, And Also Heard.
I've Got A Lot Of More Speaking To Do.
This Must Mean,
I’m Not Finished Yet.
Pop Off The Cap Of This Prescription Bottle,
Side Effects Include
Sudden Shaking,
Peel Back The Warning Label,
When They Said “Keep Out Of The Reach of Children”
They Must Have Been Talking About You.
sorry about the capitalization! I was really inspired after attending an all ages poetry slam tonight. Hope this resonates.