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Mikayla Smith Jul 2017
The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.
Something to write when there's too much inspiration.
Mikayla Smith Jul 2017
Mama washes the clothes
And hangs them out to
Dry, she takes me by my
Hand and we dance beneath
The twelve o'clock sky.

Papa goes to out and
Doesn't come home until
Late, we're all snuggled in
Bed by the time Mama asks
Him why he hasn't ate.  

He's missing out on time with
The kids,
Mama tells her sister
One dreary day.

I might just have to work more, she'll say.

Papa feels weak, thinks it's his job
To provide for a family that's
Just starting to fray.

Mama works and we ask
Why she won't come to play.

Papa tells me she's off to
Work, that it'll just be for
A little while.

But, days turn into weeks,
Weeks turn into months,
Months turn into years.
Instead of Mama, Daddy now
Wipes my tears.

They tell him that he's a poor
Excuse of a man
And that Mama is better
Off finding a real one.

Times have changed,
Families grow in different ways.
Sometimes things happen,
But I've learned that
Mama's and Papa's still
Love their children just the same.
A piece reflecting my childhood. My mother and father struggled for years to have children. When they finally did, my mother dreamed of being a stay at home mom to me and my younger brother. However, my father struggled to hold down a job, forcing my mother to work full-time while my dad looked for anyone who would hire. This lasted for years: my father losing job after job, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and my mother growing more and more bitter at my father and at the fact that she was missing out on time with her children. I was too young at the time to realize the circumstances, but now that I'm older, I have a much better perspective on it.
Mikayla Smith Jul 2017
Children like to pick apart beautiful things and leave them bare,
Simply because the destruction that lies at their fingertips is far beyond compare.
They touch the lilac sky with creation in mind
But they don't know that the light withholding their innocence has slowly died.

As children, we are the petals of a flower, lovely when in bloom
But wilted and numb once the bitterness consumes.
We are left to wonder where our innocence has gone
And we roam until our carefree days are done.

O, the vines embrace our still beating hearts,
Like the thorns that have not released us to the cold world.
I crumble beneath the lilac sky
As these fallen petals swirl.
  Jul 2017 Mikayla Smith
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
  Jul 2017 Mikayla Smith
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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