NaPM April 13, 2017

[rayheinrich]

I'm know I'm stupid,
mom said so. I know I am –
she called me retarded.

I'm five feet, four inches and eighty-five pounds.
I walk in circles, like a wind up toy
left to play by itself.

I am a girl possessed by flyaway thoughts
like Styrofoam peanuts, dandelion seeds,
baby tree spiders on tenuous threads.

I have a deficit they say,
but it's more like abundance –
a mind gorging itself

on too many things. I'm beginning to think
I might overheat and turn to ash,
or rise like a balloon, never to land.

We're all so damn good; how can this many excellent poems be written in so little time?

And this one... at least five metaphors that drive me to jealousy.

"Write a confessional poem where nothing is true."
Nothing is true? You're stretching this one a bit, aren't you?
(Oh, wait, I promised not to tell. Sorry.)