Poetry

I’m working on writing a thousand poems. I started in April 2015.

Poem #759

~ Georgia Tell ~ 1 Comment

the little sapling has hopes
she grows and grows and grows

before she knows it,
that little sapling,
she’s holding the whole world up
the stars drape over her
a glittering big top

a company of performers underneath
dancing and flipping and belting out

before she knows it,
that company of performers,
they’ve taken down the star canvas
they’ve got another world to entertain
but she remains

a big, strong tree without stars to hold up
waiting and crying and waiting

Poem #758 – sleep & grow

~ Georgia Tell ~ 1 Comment

sleep
dreaming of arcades and big wins
pushing away those warm nightmare arms

grow
stretching out and up
a warm skyscraper made of bone and skin

devastate
winning problems and aches
splinters of bone crashing to the ground

exist
pretending to be mostly okay
creating my beige bone picket fence

Poem #756 – maybe I should be a vampire

~ Georgia Tell ~ 1 Comment

they say we’re taller in the morning
our spines are puffed up sponges
I know this to be true
because I have to readjust my rear view mirror
every morning
and every evening after work
the day weighs heavy
pushing not just my soul down
but on my spine sponges, compressing them
I get shorter when the day steps on me

only night really likes me
she lets me sleep
and stokes my confidence and my body
to deal with day’s selfish demanding
she is the hero of our generation
she doesn’t demand productivity
at the cost of me
night is the lover I deserve

Poem #755 – gross

~ Georgia Tell ~ 1 Comment

mortality throbs in my head
it’s my heart counting down to when
my body finally gives out
that’s why
that’s why I got a tattoo
that’s why I run around
trying to fit everything in
that’s why I cry so much
I’m mourning
that’s why my brain vibrates
shaking up the dirt
that’s why I kiss the dirt
once it’s loose around my grave
I get to take in a stolen breath
that’s why

I’m dead
I’m already decaying
only no one told my body
so, shhh, shut the fuck up

Poem #751

~ Georgia Tell ~ 1 Comment

poetry rumbles under the skin
blue hand veins looking like rapids
it growls and demands explosion
ripping
dripping
without form
more a feeling
the best bandaid is a wing dike
to channel the river of fragments
into a slowly moving bank of words
but theoretical studies show this might result in flooding