#parallel poetry

[yeet-saintlaurent]

[bi-venger]

Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life / Halsey, 3am / Mary Oliver, Summer Morning / Donna Tartt, The Secret History / Little Women (2019) / Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet / Warsan Shire, Backwards / The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012)

[androbbersmadeawaywithhisbones]

I Am, Pt. 2

4 years later

I am a book, but I am weathered and torn; I have been bleached by the sun and wrinkled by the rain, left out and forgotten by those who were supposed to take care of me.

I am a bag, still holding an assortment of treasures and trinkets; old gum wrappers and brightly colored pill boxes; but sometimes it feels as though I am made of plastic, charms and vices all obvious to see.

I am a snowflake, with patterns too complicated to understand, unique but no one bothers to look carefully; drifting and falling down, down, down, until I eventually join with the others who have fallen before me.

I am a flower, but I have been buried beneath the snows of winter, I have been trampled underfoot, I have been beaten and blown by relentless winds, yet here I still am, stuck to this piece of earth.

I am a star, burning brightly for those around me, shining light on the beauty of those I love, exposing their perfections; yet, in reality, my light burned out a long time ago.

I am a cat, snooty and selective, sleeping endlessly, enjoying my dreams of better days; I bite and claw at anyone who tries to get close to me, when all I really want is to be loved.

I am a bumble bee, intimidating everyone who sees me, scaring people away before I can even get near; I appear to be a menace, but with just one kiss of my stinger to your skin, I die.

I am a mountain, looking strong and mighty from a distance, but up close you can see broken pieces constantly falling, little bits of me dropping away until one day there will be nothing left; I stand alone.

I am a mouse, a nuisance who stalks your home at night, hiding behind walls and in your pipes; you set traps for me, you wish to throw me out, but I just want to live in your presence.

I am a poem, sometimes happy, but mostly sad, longing after something or someone; sometimes organized, sometimes chaotic, and sometimes making you wish you had never started reading in the first place.

—m.k.l.

[coca-cola--pussy]

I Am, Pt. 2

4 years later

I am a book, but I am weathered and torn; I have been bleached by the sun and wrinkled by the rain, left out and forgotten by those who were supposed to take care of me.

I am a bag, still holding an assortment of treasures and trinkets; old gum wrappers and brightly colored pill boxes; but sometimes it feels as though I am made of plastic, charms and vices all obvious to see.

I am a snowflake, with patterns too complicated to understand, unique but no one bothers to look carefully; drifting and falling down, down, down, until I eventually join with the others who have fallen before me.

I am a flower, but I have been buried beneath the snows of winter, I have been trampled underfoot, I have been beaten and blown by relentless winds, yet here I still am, stuck to this piece of earth.

I am a star, burning brightly for those around me, shining light on the beauty of those I love, exposing their perfections; yet, in reality, my light burned out a long time ago.

I am a cat, snooty and selective, sleeping endlessly, enjoying my dreams of better days; I bite and claw at anyone who tries to get close to me, when all I really want is to be loved.

I am a bumble bee, intimidating everyone who sees me, scaring people away before I can even get near; I appear to be a menace, but with just one kiss of my stinger to your skin, I die.

I am a mountain, looking strong and mighty from a distance, but up close you can see broken pieces constantly falling, little bits of me dropping away until one day there will be nothing left; I stand alone.

I am a mouse, a nuisance who stalks your home at night, hiding behind walls and in your pipes; you set traps for me, you wish to throw me out, but I just want to live in your presence.

I am a poem, sometimes happy, but mostly sad, longing after something or someone; sometimes organized, sometimes chaotic, and sometimes making you wish you had never started reading in the first place.

--m.k.l.