Five Best

These are my five best poems so far. I've been scribbling down anything that comes to me, regardless of where I am. Many of these are probably a bit clumsy, but I liked them enough to share them.

Eggshell Ballet

Only sixteen years old,

Rosy-faced in the cold,

You come up on your toes,

Don’t think that anyone knows

How you dance and you weave,

All so they won’t perceive

Those eggshells you’re walking through.

How they must love you.

When the sun comes out bright,

You keep those toe-taps light.

You pirouette with a twirl,

Far more dancer than girl,

But it must be worth it

For the way they will love you.

Trust them, they will.

Whenever they’re ready to....

Home

To be a home to someone…

I don’t want to be a home to someone.

A home is strong.

It’s solid.

It doesn’t move.

It welcomes the new,

It shelters the old,

It listens to every

Laugh

And sob.

It feels every heartbreak.

It is malleable.

It lets people change it,

Let’s them take it apart,

Paint over the ugly bits.

A home is sure of itself.

It’s selfless.

It offers all of itself to someone else.

I suppose that is beautiful in a way,

Though it sounds miserable.

How unfair it must be,

How thankless,

To be a home.

No,

I don’t want to be a home to anyone.

Self-Doubt

I think I must be a poet.

It’s a funny thing to think-

Of all the things

In all of existence,

In our wide, wide universe,

Of all the shapes my atoms could’ve taken,

I have become a poet.

I am, perhaps,

Probably, in fact,

Not a very good poet.

I am probably clunky.

I lack experience.

Yet my fingers trace the words while I speak.

I cannot seem to stop myself.

So I must be a poet,

Mustn’t I?

Untitled II

I stay my hand

Just before the slap.

I flinch in my head

When I fall into that trap.

I bite back venom,

I bare my teeth.

I laugh it off later,

Crown my tears with a wreath.

I spit out names,

Trip over the guilt.

I mop over the place

Where my blood has been spilt.

My heart has been broken.

It gathers dust on that shelf.

I am in an abusive relationship

With no one but myself.

Words to Lips

Pencil to paper,

Words to lips,

A shadow-clad caper,

A teacup to sip.

Color on parchment,

Sighs turn to rhymes,

Can’t afford me an apartment,

Can’t buy me any time.

Ink on tongues,

Wrapping to fit her,

Seconds too young,

Tastes sour, sweet, bitter.

The rhythm is lacking,

The nouns fall flat,

But the confidence is stacking,

Because poetry has no time for all that.

Author's Note

I'm a prose writer before I am a poet. I'm none too certain of the quality of these poems, but I do want to hear what others may think of them.

Reviews

[Chris]

Hello and welcome to WC.

Seems we all begin somewhen and somewhere. Our words are a part of us - they have meaning and worth ...though sometimes it's just to us. I listened to what you have to say - poetry IS an audible art - a spoken as well as read - form. You put your self in your pieces - it IS what we as poets do. Each piece gives the reader/listener a hint of its author.

You speak well - a lil bit rough at points, but that is to be expected as you grow in skill and life experience. The lines form and flow well one into the next. Some poets rhyme their ways others don't - I don't prefer either - just be comfortable with the method you choose ...and here you appear comfortable.

Take care, find your balance and your way... catch a breath and above all - be you.