This is not poetry.
It’s fill in the blank
I’m a teacher
There’s comfort in assessments
I live in hell
Otherwise known as [Insert State]
At 25
Vowed
Never to to step here
Again
Till hubby
Sat me at the table
“You won't like what I’m about to say”
I moved
Livin' gold star
[Insert Acronym]
Where sun never stops
Beating
Tiffany Blue bounced
Fabricated grasses
But
I moved from
unleveled streets
with overarching one hundred year old trees
Foot melt grass, loamy sponges
Wind snapped
Castle upon a hill
I taught in that neighborhood
Never, ever wanted
To leave
Til hubby
Sighed and folded hands upon the table
“It will happen quickly”
I’m over how hard it is
moving to
the limp dick
of the united states.
Over the New
Over the discomfort
of
Where I'm living
Fill in the blank with the correct state.
.
18
About the Creator
No Real Balance
Reluctant Writer. Teacher.
Hawking vocal contests for love letters.
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More stories from No Real Balance and writers in Poets and other communities.
Qualification Disclaimer
Excuse me. . I ain’t no wax-lyrical-meter defined-author-purpose kinda writer. I'm more like a dissect-cats-mate-flies-Punnet in the classroom reporter. I understand the submission rules and guidelines. But I gotta hand up. You wanna a poem about comfort from a TEACHER…POST-PANDEMIC?!
By No Real Balance3 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova3 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Fiction
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