"Define Me" and "Decay"
Poetry is writ;
Soft as the sky, static-charged with
Independent emotions dancing livewire steps
Through sunset slick veins.
And here is the poet, pen-stained
And naked in her thoughts. She has planted
A garden in her armchair;
It is time to harvest
There were hours before
the clock grew tired of routine,
hung it's hat on the doorknob, folded its arms
to lay down, fetal-like,
swept under fraying corners of the carpet:
Thoughts, they are peeled as scabs
from the Bottom of My Mind,
the Back of My Heart,
to be shuffled into the rest of the deck
And shredded--Lingchi by paper cut.
I remember at random intervals
triggered by simple, minimalistic pettiness:
bitter tinged whiskey smelling like summer,
the creak slam of lazy-hinged storm doors,
unshakable sea-salt sweetness grinding down between bicuspids--
A swollen tongue to a cavity-turned-crater,
if only as a stark reminder that the Decay
Jenna-Nichole Conrad is a semi-nomadic poet experiencing existence in the Boston area. She lives with Bipolar II, and, on the good days, considers it a source of creative inspiration.