“A Letter to Alexander Graham Bell from his Deaf Wife, Mabel” a poem by Karly Fesolowich and winner of the Coaches Award for Best Persona Poem at CUPSI 2012.
Remember when I said I’d only post poetry videos here this month if you absolutely *had* to watch them? Well, today is the last day of NAPOWRIMO, and this is WORTH IT.
These thoughts I throw through metaphor
Jon Sands-A working list of things I will never tell you
Wow.
This man. So much.
Next performing here
..for those who lost God to logic,
who found faith in the safety of the quiet we share in the dark.
Even though our story has seen it’s darker pages,
you should know I was a surgeon in a riot,
determined to save the healthy parts of us,
even when the days wreaked of chaos,
I bleached the score board clean,
so just stay with me, and sleep.
This is, this is me.
So please let me be this fragile,
this unfinished,
still trying to learn how to speak honestly,
in simple word strung melodies.
to people I don’t want to leave.
How to say, stay,
just stay.
this unfinished,
still trying to learn how to speak honestly,
in simple word strung melodies.
to people I don’t want to leave.
How to say, stay,
just stay.
We will paint the floorboards with our footsteps.
Here among all the antiquities of us.
We are relics of a time,
when being in love was an excuse for madness.
We exiled kings of romance.
Swirling joyously dazed,
throughout the maze,
of cracks and stains,
that make up our floorboards.
We have victory written down our veins.
Determined to explore,
everything the future has in store,
and find out if we could discover a kiss,
that solves it all.
I love you like we are burnt out and broken,
tarnished old tokens,
of a time when the stage lights were brighter.
But we strive to keep our hands held tight,
and hold each other warm into morning.
We could strip away the morning,
shading it’s drawn out pale minutes,
with slow drip conversation.
Taking time to make sure everything is just how it should be.
Realistically,
we’re never going to dance through the streets,
not when the bars are calling us neon voiced into their comforting noise.
Not when we have beds to get back to.
So let’s slip ourselves neatly,
into the evening,
slowing hearts and breathing,
and sleep.
The cold is frosting up the window panes,
and you say that you’re feeling strange.
I’m hoping for the first time that you have headaches,
or hold confusion heavy in your head.
But you’re sitting there.
On the end of our bed.
And your eyes are skipping chapters,
letting me know what’s next,
and there’s no use in running,
you’re no longer a sure bet,
I can see you’re dead set,
on running out and not looking back.
With every spidered word,
crawling from the cracks of us,
you tie us to the tracks.
I shake.
Nervous from impending tears,
holding back my pleas,
repeating in my head,
just cling onto your dignity.
This is how I see us dying,
vivid in my darker daydreams.
And that makes this the strangest way of trying,
to hold you close and say,
don’t leave me.
