Number: January 3, 2009

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Fleeting acceptance,

make me your witness,

force me close

with the arms atop your eyes.

Correct my mould

with the fingers from the sky.

Reverse my order,

and “Repeat machine.”

Look in my eyes,

my mouth becomes mean.

 

Atop the surface of a Holy little hymn,

Atop the Earth,

I join the corps of men.

Is it the corps or corpse

dangling high above?

Is it rolling and shooting,

reaching to be loved?

Is it the cry outside your window,

as we learn to progress?

Is it the silver in my chair,

as I lay my head to rest?

 

Create a reason…

My thirty lost its four,

Commit to treason:

The promises to hold open the door—

but look

as I am shattered

all along the hall,

the words are casting,

and I wait for my call.

 

I use cotton

to loosen

the jaw of my mouth.

I paint pictures of my voice,

and seek those who develop.

 

To hold the choice

of the head of the line,

To witness the riot–

It’s the menace

soaking up time.

 

Through the pages,

let’s try it,

and breathe it.

— shall we shake hands,

with the sane,

to linger

and defeat it?

 

 

Written January 3, 2009, age 15. Includes some minor edits*

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