Perpendicular
A Poem
If beauty is skin deep,
What do mirrors display?
If talk is truly cheap,
Why do so many pay
Such great attention to what others say?
Why do we insist on sieving
If life is what you make it?
How can you call it living
When you act like you might break it?
Is it any wonder why most fake it?
I long for a perpendicular
Particular
Simplicity of calm
To brush off the gratuitous
And call it a fortuitous
Soul-searching-soothing balm.
I wish to stop the world
To ease my weary mind
And be no longer blind by what I see.
Someday I’ll find…
Someday I’ll be
A different kind of free.
How can anyone have healing
If they can’t afford prescriptions?
How can we catch a feeling
If we’re programmed with depictions
Of tailor-made portrayals and convictions?
One more lamb to the slaughter…
You can say that I’m neurotic,
But this fish is drowning in the water
Because it’s all just too chaotic.
Do I ride the wave or go against the flow?
Can I be that brave?
Only one way to know…
About the Creator
Laura Merchant
Writer. Teacher. Performer. INFJ. Disney enthusiast. Texan.
Instagram & Twitter: @LMerchant84
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More stories from Laura Merchant and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
That was fantastic. Well done Laura! Cuts deep