In a world where traumas are written all over our bodies


He has a bipolar jaw line and a suicidal knee cap,

collapsing and shaking

and reverberating his thoughts through his PTSD lip.

It quivers, and she looks away with an autistic eyelid.

See her a deaf cheek?

Their blind foreheads fluctuate, and their arthritic fingers vibrate.

Reynard’s Disease. Or Disorder IV. Perhaps,

one we’ve never heard before consumes the heart that’s about to break.

....

This was read at the University of Kansas in May of 2013: Read more about this event here:

http://shannonathompson.com/2013/05/10/contest-winners-and-poetry-from-my-ku-reading/

There are days
I try to think
   Of what to write
Then I blink
It starts to sink
Into the drink
No more ink
Flow, just a stink
There is no ink
From word to word
As
I try to think
There are days.

The ink crawled down my throat,
Mixing with the blood,
Without a boat.
They sneered at the dare,
Cruel friends,
Open-mouthed stare.
A fire kindled deep within,
They still laughed,
My eyes watered,feelling a sting.
Foam at my mouth,
Stupid urge to pout.
Distracting the feeling of fall,
Shouts all around.
Abhorrent playground.
No one continued to notice the frail,pale boy on the ground.
Ardor of death,
Feeling of dread,
Tasting someone's cold breath,
My soul,wispy,fragile threads.
Suddenly my eyes closed,
Devoid of feeling,
My end fate chosed.
                                   -**Firefly