I grip at your base,
Twist and pull,
Displace
Your happy yellow blooms
(beloved of bees).
I rip out your roots,
Stuff you into a bag
Like so much trash.
Beneficial, nutritional, medicinal
Hated by humans
Because you can't be
Marked, marketed, bought or sold.
What will become of you
When even I,
(knowing your value)
Hide you like
A secret,
Just to avoid a fine?
I don't have the time
To collect, wash, dry, store
Everything you offer.
You are a survivor,
Thriving despite
Constant disruption.
No matter how much
I pull and tear
You'll still be there,
Poking through the cracks,
Your head turning fluffy white
To alight on the passing wind
Or the breath of a child
Who hasn't learned of your sin.
About the Creator
Bex Jordan
She/They. Writer. Gardener. Cat-Lover. Nerd. Always looking up at the sky or down at the ground.
Profile photo by Román Anaya.
Instagram: @UmaSabirah
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November 30th.
I am sat by my favorite tree again, 13 days later. The ground beneath me is still familiar, and so is the smell of smoke, but I am trying to get used to the ache in my lungs. I try not to ruminate on these next three weeks, my least favorite of the year, but it is futile. I feel stuck. I am unsure if I have it in me to turn my pain into some glorious metaphor tonight. The sun sets too early now; they’re each different, sure, but in this moment, it feels all the same. Blue and yellow and orange muddled together until the canvas becomes dark again, like I am used to. I like being used to things. My roommates’ conversations sound foreign, the girl in the mirror is a stranger, I have this weird pain in my left shoulder, maybe I should have gone to my weekly yoga class after all. For 13 days, I was someone different, and 13 days later, I don’t want to know her anymore. I feel stagnant. My to-do list is a mountain and I have no plan for when to climb it, much less how. I am sat outside, on the golf course that has become my second home, hoping desperately to find the place in which my remains are buried, but I’m not even trying. I see no grave and there was never a tombstone to look for, all that I am met with is a rabbit hopping by, that’s new. I don’t like new. The next three weeks shouldn’t feel new, I’ve been through them before and I’ll do so again next year. New, new, new, everything feels new. The girl I once knew would know what to do, but these 13 days have killed her, and funnily enough, there’s still no tombstone to look for. Last week was warm but tonight the weather chills me to my bone; my hands are always cold but I worry my thumbs might actually freeze. These sweatpants were given to me yesterday and my comically large coat has finally made its debut. The growl from my stomach is almost comforting, if only it didn’t pain me in a way I wasn’t used to. I twirl my hair, the same piece I always do, but I just found out it might make it shorter than the rest, that’s new. Everything seems so close, but when I reach out my arms, it is only a gust of wind that greets me, and a magnifying glass falls out of my hands. I didn’t know I was holding that. I don’t know a lot anymore, apparently, and, worst of all, I don’t know if I have it in me to learn again.
By daphne gray5 days ago in Poets
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The invisible game begins The first time I realized I was invisible to most people was at the age of 7. I had been playing with a cousin and another girl who lived nearby showed up. My cousin began to ignore me when I spoke and turned her back on me to play with this other girl. I walked home sad and confused because I did not understand what had just happened.
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Comments (5)
Wonderful metaphor. This is astounding in its logic and how it is working to illustrate such deep emotional turmoil. The connection to a relationship, even the truth of the words at face value, all connect to create such an amazing read. Truly, this is poetry at its finest. "Your head turning fluffy white To alight on the passing wind Or the breath of a child Who hasn't learned of your sin." That last line...damn.
Hey, I just want to let you know I've shared this poem in my recent story: https://vocal.media/poets/poppy-s-preferences-pt3
wow, awesome, unique, thoughtful poem!
Underlying the ostensible fragility, a great strength and expressive songful quality. Very nice work!
"For What it's Worth" – Your words hold immeasurable value, resonating deeply with readers' hearts and minds. Your writing is a precious gift to the world! 🌟📝💖