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For my third poetry collection. I might submit other poetry collections aside from my first, but I'm not sure. As a whole, I'm not satisfied with either of them.
--
You grew up with love as dead as your mother’s garden.
Monday through Friday, you arrived home at precisely 4:00,
Trading a screaming battlefield for a silent one.
Your father sat in his brown armchair, the one that smelled of tobacco,
And stared into the hard, artificial glow of the television.
Over the years, you learned it was better to keep him occupied with it.
When he wasn’t watching you (everyday), you took your wooden jewelry box
And went into the quiet arms of the forest behind your house.
There, you nursed a collection of exoskeletons and dry leaves.
You only ever had the nerve to touch that which had already died,
But when you returned home, while the sky was still in limbo between day and night,
You stared at the birds flying free on the other side of your grimy kitchen window.
These days, you’re no longer locked inside a rusty wire cage,
But your wings are clipped by a pair of scissors that are no longer sharp enough to cut.
Your collection of remains has long since withered away into dust,
But you’re still terrified to touch the living, fearing a bite or sting from an unfriendly creature.
So you duck your head between your knees and grasp at handfuls of pine needles,
Wishing you could rid yourself of the chirping coming from the treetops.
--
You grew up with love as dead as your mother’s garden.
Monday through Friday, you arrived home at precisely 4:00,
Trading a screaming battlefield for a silent one.
Your father sat in his brown armchair, the one that smelled of tobacco,
And stared into the hard, artificial glow of the television.
Over the years, you learned it was better to keep him occupied with it.
When he wasn’t watching you (everyday), you took your wooden jewelry box
And went into the quiet arms of the forest behind your house.
There, you nursed a collection of exoskeletons and dry leaves.
You only ever had the nerve to touch that which had already died,
But when you returned home, while the sky was still in limbo between day and night,
You stared at the birds flying free on the other side of your grimy kitchen window.
These days, you’re no longer locked inside a rusty wire cage,
But your wings are clipped by a pair of scissors that are no longer sharp enough to cut.
Your collection of remains has long since withered away into dust,
But you’re still terrified to touch the living, fearing a bite or sting from an unfriendly creature.
So you duck your head between your knees and grasp at handfuls of pine needles,
Wishing you could rid yourself of the chirping coming from the treetops.
