by Owen O’Farrell
I can be your hands,
snap my fingers for you,
snap bones for you,
pull teeth for profit.
I’ll sell my soul for verses,
sell my verses for attention,
and pay attention to pretty strangers who aren’t worth it.
I suppose you don’t need me.
I clench fists to keep secrets close,
bedazzle knees with loose gravel
I decorate my bedroom with broken broomsticks,
frame light bulbs with murdered desk bits.
I like to collect dust.
You dig dinosaur bones out from under your fingernails,
pop beer bottles with sheer willpower,
and light people on fire with a gaze
Your paper burns at 451 degrees,
but you spit like a volcano-
no you’re even hotter,
you get to the core.
not just melting hearts,
but flesh from bone.
have you noticed?
We ride bikes on back roads,
yet still this place manages to take its toll.
Here our limbs grow heavy
eyelids drag us down,
so let us descend out tongues
trying to break free,
let’s hollow our bones
like the bodies or guitars,
become acoustically stable,
grow feathers and be able
We could leave this small town,
tip our toes against the precipice of tomorrow,
dance on the horn rim of your glasses.
We’ll find refuge from the storm in the shadow of your jawbone,
unspool the threads of your sweater
and tie our veins together
so we’ll never get lost.
You know, I couldn’t bear losing you.
You with hair curled
braided like barbed wire.
You who has spools of roses,
baked into bodies,
eggs and ham.
Sam I am disdainful of reality,
because even you are a fantasy.
You crush mountains into mole hills.
I wear my heart on my sleeve like it’s cannon fodder.
POETIC JUSTICE is a compilation of poems by FirstWord.
FirstWord meets every Monday at 4pm at Steve’s Guitars in Carbondale, CO.
It is free to participate and open to all Roaring Fork Valley students 21 and under.
Writers of all experience levels are welcome to join.
Questions? Contact Nicole Stanton.
This post was written by Tori Morris