wipe

an overflowing mind,
words that struggle to break free
and arrange themselves in order
until I have no words left
to give.


when my mind is empty
and night has come,
I take these daily goals
and line them up in rows
along the back of my skull
to keep their place
until another day is done.

then sleep pulls this zipper closed,
holds all these obligations in
until I can wake and give them each time,
until then, they have a place to hide.

--
Prompt is. . . yep, sleep deprivation makes me wacko.

monday

we sit at the edge, dangling our toes,
a fine pair
of hope and fear.

both looking to what the future holds,
for one small question
forgotten to avoid an answer,
until the date reaches
a week past no return

and I flip through the pages
to remember what held the balance--
hope and fear.
to see which one jumps, or
pushes the other.

--
I shouldn't write poetry right before going to bed. It gets very loopy. This basically deals with how if I'm looking for an event to come (getting a rejection/acceptance letter, grades being posted), there's this balance of hope and fear, of my optimism saying I'll triumph, and my fear saying not to be so sure. Kinda like that Red Dwarf episode.

haggle

what each minute is worth to me
in the tick of time lost:

buying back these moments
with desperate fingers
that look to the future
and take to make up the past
that I squandered

something to trade for a few extra seconds,
bartering promises
for more time to waste.

--
Yeah, I need to stop watching so much FMA Brotherhood and Babylon 5. Netflix is definitely evil, though part of the problem is I told myself that I could relax and watch tons of tv in May, and now that I'm keeping with this poem a day and also doing a story a day, not so much. So I still relax, I just end up paying for it later.

musical

ample misinterpretation
as I build a world on these lyrics
never meant in their creation,

and you will never know quite why
I click it back
to play again.

--
Prompt is. . . well, I've been listening to a lot of music while doing my crazy story a day challenge, trying to get myself to write. And I keep playing the same songs over and over, because I put stories behind them, and that makes them mean so much more to me. So if I can create such detailed stories to these songs, why can't I just create one for my story today? Gah.

melodrama

there's no call for it,
these feelings of uselessness, worthlessness
and the intent to do things
I never would do
with a clear head.

I should sleep.

--
Prompt is the fact that I've had a crazy long day filled with far too much stimulation on three hours of sleep. Also, commencement ceremonies are a droning awful hell, but it was worth it to hear them call my best friend's name.

cheer

sleep won't come
to one so obsessed
with making ends meet
in an unfinished story.

--
Title is. . . not at all prompt. Prompt is the crazy writing challenge I'm doing that's sapping my want to write poems.

worm

digging through layers of dirt,
I search for the sky--

wanderer with no legs, no destination,
but up
away from the press
of water on skin.

--
Title is prompt. Went with boring interpretation of word--not enough time or motivation to do any further, and much in need of sleep.

ease

an endless sky of yellow-white
takes breaths below the sea,
for as the ship finds bottom rest
I scale another tree.

I see the shore like heron perched
upon the earth's long legs
the waves like drowning men that lurch
their corpses from the dregs

across the water carried, still
until they reach the sand--
an army mortal man can't kill
is left to my command.

a scattered field of bone bleached white
spits glory from its shine;
I reach one hand out, clench it tight,
and call the wreckage mine.

--
Title and the weird picture in my head are prompt.

seethe

I split the sky into you and me
and found peace in that morning.

You stayed up all night with glue and tape
and tried in vain to make us fit,
over and over again.

But the more you try,
the more I pull away, sticky--
angry at the sight of more attempts.
How long can you place me beside you in words
before opening your eyes
to see I'm gone.


and I never was there:
Just a prop of paper-mâché
made to fit your expectations.

Is that why you cling to this
portrayal on paper
while I greet another morning alone,
comfortable
in my half of the sky.

--
Title is semi-prompt.

rain

I cracked dry from the pressure--
drought of hiding
in a barren world where I thought
the way I was
was just for show


and the rain only came back
when I told you no.




--
Title and Vienna Teng's song 'Drought' are prompt.