2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

Wow! It took an entire week to get to our first two-for-Tuesday prompt. If you’re new to these challenges, you can pick either one prompt or the other. Or decide to do both. Your choice.

For today’s Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

  1. Write a days of the week poem. Pick one day or work through them all. Have the poem about the days or just name drop a day (or days) of the week in the poem.
  2. Write a days of the weak poem. See what I did there with the spelling of “week” to “weak?” The poem could be about weakness in another, yourself, or objects that are weak.

Have at it!

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Here’s my attempt at a Days of the Week and/or Days of the Weak Poem:

“It was a Wednesday”

When I swung by the store
for some asparagus and
I came home with discounted
Halloween candy. I didn’t eat

the asparagus. And then,
on Thursday, I did buy red
potatoes, but I ate cookies.
The entire weekend (Friday,

Saturday, and Sunday) were
a blur of sugar and processed
foods. I admit that my intentions
are strong, but my body weak.

Until Monday, when I actually
ate my Brussels sprouts and
drank my smoothies. And today,
Tuesday, what will I do today?

*****

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.

He has lost a lot of weight this year through healthy eating and exercise, but he admits that his sweet tooth derailed his October. Good thing it’s November, right?

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

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265 thoughts on “2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

  1. LCaramanna

    Sweet Temptation

    There is candy in my cupboard
    Left over from Halloween
    Candy in my cupboard
    That should remain unseen

    Temptation overcomes me
    I open that cupboard door
    Candy, candy, candy
    Is what I reach for

    With reckless abandon
    I ride that sugar high
    It’s that candy in my cupboard
    My addiction I can’t deny

    There is candy in my cupboard
    I just can’t ignore
    Weakness overcomes me
    And I grab for more

    Lorraine Caramanna

  2. Shennon

    I appreciate the
    young one.
    She glides in
    once a week.
    Between her job,
    providing her family a meal,
    and bell choir practice,
    she visits me.
    All attention devoted
    to me while she’s
    sitting in the faded armchair.
    Bounding away after
    half an hour,
    reluctant to leave,
    but on to her next task.
    My weak body rests,
    my heart is content,
    I anticipate next Wednesday.

    –ShennonDoah

  3. Shennon

    In Spanish it starts with Monday
    I urge each student to try
    “Everyone say ‘lunes'”
    Is greeted with curious ‘whys’

    Why would the Spanish start their week
    With a day that wasn’t right?
    I deflect less relevant questions
    Then fling back my head to recite

    Those solemn seven words
    I logistically defend
    Since ‘sábado’ and ‘domingo’
    Represent the true week END.

    –ShennonDoah

  4. RJ Clarken

    No Explanation

    “To rush into explanations is always a sign of weakness.” ~Agatha Christie, The Seven Dials Mystery

    Think things through ‘fore opening one’s mouth
    with stupid explanations.
    The less is said, the less is misread
    and the less the low expectations.

    Keep an air of mystery going
    or else, dispel all the doubts.
    The less is misread when less is said,
    thereby minimizing the fallouts.

    So, do I follow this sage advice?
    Wish I could say, “All the time.”
    The less is said, the less is misread
    thus the answer is no re this rhyme.

    But…does that show a sign of weakness
    or just some human nature?
    The less is misread when less is said,
    which illustrates this nomenclature.

    ###

  5. RJ Clarken

    Not Enough Days in the Week

    “Creativity is a highfalutin word for the work I have to do between now and Tuesday.” ~Ray Kroc

    Busy equals creativity.
    So the pundits would tell us.
    Too much to get done? Where is the fun?
    Or does motion simply compel us?

    There’s not enough days of the week, no.
    I often wish I could clone.
    Where is the fun? Too much to get done.
    But, instead, I’ll just whine, “Shoulda known.”

    I was born on Tuesday. Where’s my grace?
    I’m creative, but so what?
    Too much to get done. Wanna have fun.
    I wish I could find a good short cut

    to do what I need, and what I want.
    Please, just ignore my griping.
    There’s much be done: I’ll still find fun.
    Which reminds me, time to start typing.

    ###

  6. Domino

    Days of the Weak

    It is just too hard to argue with angry voices on the news.
    It’s too hard to think for myself or pretend I know how to choose.
    It is just too hard to wonder why our lives are the way they are.
    It’s so much easier to let talking heads tell me who’s a star,
    what I should be angry about and what I should simply ignore.
    They need to tell me who to hate and with whom our country should war.
    How else can I make decisions? It’s too hard to think on my own.
    Besides, they’re trustworthy, aren’t they? And falsehoods they couldn’t condone.
    So I’ll continue merrily in my dim, unreasoning way
    and fight to the death anyone who disagrees with what I say.

  7. ToniBee3

    friday’s soupe du jour

    she likes french toast topped with fraise
    venison with hollandaise
    passion fruit-filled soufflés
    but he didn’t know that yesterdays

    she’s frabjous when she’s cracking yolks
    fracted when he’s cracking jokes
    about her “frumpish” coats and toques
    (be careful flippant frog-mouthed bloke)

    her bill of fare be a sundry of frous
    mousses crêpes pâtés and roux
    frankly it wouldn’t shock a fuse
    if she fried him up in friday’s stew

  8. Jane Shlensky

    Renaming the Days

    Retirement shuffles days for me.
    I start my week on hump day
    so the downhill slide is logical.
    No more dreaded Mondays.
    I fill each day with this and that,
    mostly that, and never complete
    a thing. I’m engaged nonstop
    with beginnings, with ideas
    that do not claim mindfulness,
    with lunches and novels
    and poetry and spiced apples,
    with music and new instruments,
    with new names for old days—
    choir day, women’s club day,
    birthday breakfast day,
    exercise days, soup making days.
    Only Sunday is intact, known
    by its old name, Sabbath,
    but since I play for church,
    it is a work day.

  9. Jane Shlensky

    Weak Days

    I cough, my bronchial tubes hissing,
    and I know at sunrise that this will be
    a weak day, when the slightest effort
    will make me tired, when I will need
    naps and wake up weary from them,
    that great ideas don’t jazz me,
    and solutions to problems elude me.
    When I’m healthy but tired, I think
    a weak day would be delightful,
    a sort of down nothingness day,
    the way I imagine that a prison term
    with three squares, a taut bed,
    and lots of books and writing time
    would be wonderful, crazy thought,
    but I know this is about time
    and how I feel as it passes, whether
    I have contributed or learned anything.
    On weak days, time just seeps away.

  10. MHR

    I know, I’m late but I needed to do some research for this one… Thank you for reading. 🙂 It’s titled, “Don’t Leave Me.”

    it started on Friday.
    i felt it coming when he woke up suddenly at
    four o’clock in the AM
    and when i came to comfort him
    he screamed my name and turned to hide his face like he
    didn’t know why,
    exactly, he did that.

    “don’t leave me,” but now i see he doesn’t
    know who he is talking to.
    he sees me flying into the air and
    being caught in his arms, twirling me on prom night, littering
    roses in my room.

    over the years, it selfishly feels like,
    he would have time to forever memorize my face.
    but now it’s another swallow of Namenda,
    another lost face wandering in
    a cloud of distant memories,
    and frail lips shaping my name, again, again,
    again.

  11. headintheclouds87

    Days of the Weak

    Which is the weakest of the weekdays?
    Is it Monday, mundane and moaning?
    Dragging us back to dreaded ‘adulting’.
    Is it Tuesday, tiring and grey?
    Toiling through, not much to say.
    Is it Wednesday, the hopeful hump?
    Halfway there (on a prayer), or near enough.
    Is it Thursday, another step closer
    Away from labour’s hammer and thunder?
    Or is it in fact, Friday, the promise of much
    The precious time with those we love,
    In the fabled ‘weekend’ to follow,
    Only to find our hearts and wallets hollow
    After a blur of two days binging
    On supposedly therapeutic retail, brazen drinking.
    These weekends weaken us just as well
    As the five days we force our way through
    To reach our treasured two,
    All leading to that Sunday night of sorrow
    Bracing for the crush of Monday tomorrow.

  12. Sally Jadlow

    Weak Ones

    11/7/17

    We suffer common maladies
    every day of the week.

    We lie, excuse it
    with the label, white.

    We gossip
    and call it, news.

    We let irritation spill over
    and call it, righteous anger.

    We will gain strength
    when we call our sins, sin,
    and let The Strong One
    take over.

  13. Pat Walsh

    the days of the week
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    in the sear of the sun
    they curl toward evening
    while the night waits
    in fevered anticipation
    of eclipse

    the days of the week
    scatter beyond boxes
    onfronting the sky
    with a broken promise
    of summer

    the hours meanwhile
    adorned in quiet shadows
    smuggle warmth
    amid a dark shrill shift
    of seasons

  14. Jrentler

    the Hopi’s have a doll

    composed of twigs
    & twine pulled taut
    knotted by shaman hands

    & if you are truly
    the lost white
    brother

    you must discern
    which
    to untie first

    for only one
    shall thread through
    & unbind all

  15. Alphabet Architect

    My Day Friday

    Friday is my day
    My day to sleep
    Sip coffee
    Birdwatch

    Friday is my day
    My day to garden
    Write
    Play with Kitty.

    Friday is my day
    My day to regroup
    Refresh
    Rekindle love

    And best of all…

    Friday night is our night
    Date night
    Stay out late night
    Yours and mine.

  16. JanetRuth

    Moment-ous Week-ending Summary

    From moment-to-moment to minute-to-minute
    to hour-to-hour to day-to-day
    to week-to-week to month
    -to-month to year-to-year
    flicker and shimmer
    and glimmer a-
    way
    with
    moment-to
    minute to hour
    to day to week to month
    to year on year until with one
    exhale the scale that measures moments-
    minutes-hours-days-weeks-months-years disappears

  17. JanetRuth

    I don’t know how often I’ve said and will continue to say it…where do the weeks go?!

    Toast to Week-moments…

    I’d like to make you quite a friend
    And raise a toast to you, my dear
    But here you come and there you go
    You always wink and disappear

    I went to tidy up…oh, caution
    I found clothes that needed washin’
    And while hanging them out to dry
    I weedy garden caught my eye
    …and grass that needed mowing, oh
    a row that needed hoeing so
    a child that needed holding
    pile of towels that needed folding
    then it was time for dinner
    and the houseplants needed water
    and the daughter needed mother
    and we all needed each other
    and the dishes needed ‘doing’
    and the neighbor’s cat some shooing
    and the flowers, second-glances
    and the hour, second dances
    where our chances are not numbered
    nor our dances unencumbered
    circumstances never worry
    about weather, whether hurry
    is an excuse or a reason
    wink-blink, ah, farewell Season

    …I like to make you quite a friend
    and raise a toast to you, my dear
    But here you come and there you go
    You always wink and disappear

  18. Connie Peters

    A Week in Hawaii

    Six-hour flight
    Sandwiched between two
    Daughter and sis
    Snapped pictures
    Met other sis and nephew
    Dinner and fireworks

    Waikiki
    Beach chairs, umbrella
    Bob in waves
    Evening
    Paid eight dollars for French fries
    Very loud restaurant

    Swap meet fun
    Shopped and ate shaved ice
    Taxi ride
    The Bus ride
    Dinner cruise, pinkish sunset
    Watched hula dancers

    One long day
    Polynesian Place
    Rained whole time
    Tasted poi
    Watched lots of hula dancers
    Bought ukulele

    Pearl Harbor
    White memorial
    Heard stories
    Felt sorrow
    Then ate at Hard Rock Cafe
    Kathy tried poke

    My birthday
    At Hanamau Bay
    Beautiful
    We snorkeled
    At dinner heard “Brown-eyed girl”
    I had steak and shrimp

    Maui Day
    Road to Hana tour
    Lots of curves
    Lots of plants
    Got to see a rainbow tree
    Airport-great burgers

  19. seingraham

    IT WAS A TUESDAY, EARLY

    I don’t remember, of course
    Does anyone recall the moment
    of their birth? But you were
    kind enough to tell me it was one
    of the best things to ever happen
    to you, and that made me glow.

    But, I couldn’t help but wonder
    and wondering, ask you –
    How was it you breastfed me
    for all those weeks – six, I was told—
    and then gave me up, gave me away.
    Didn’t that just about kill you?

    The pause on the phone was long
    and the silence over the wires
    so loud, it hurt my heart; I wished
    I hadn’t asked, but, then I caught
    your sob – you whispered—but
    I heard you, “…of course, of course…”

    I stuttered, was crying myself then
    wished I could see you, maybe hug
    you. “I’m sorry,” I said. “No, no!”
    You were loud in my ear. “You don’t
    have to be sorry about anything!”
    You sounded strong right now.

    “Feeding you…” you stop again, then—
    “Feeding you was part of the happiest time,”
    Your voice was soft again. “But, it was also
    the price we paid – the unwed mothers, I
    mean.” I could hardly believe it but then,
    of course, I could. How cruel a system, an
    adoption from Children’s Aid was, back then.

    “It was so the babies got a good start,”
    she said “Then we went to court, and
    I had to hand you over to someone I
    didn’t know…”I could picture it. Me
    screaming my head off and you having
    to place me in some stranger’s arms
    and then telling the judge,
    “I relinquish all rights to this child.”

    I asked you if you remembered what day
    that was, and you did – It was the same as
    the day I was born, a Tuesday.

    1. MET

      I know how bad this was….if it was the Children’s Aid Society of Tennessee… I know even more how bad it was … the woman who ran it and the Judge who helped… are evil people in my book… thousands of children kidnapped for some of them were….I have been horrified of the children sold by the Children’s Aid Society… pure evil…. I am glad you found your mother…

      I want you to know I may have did plenty of Termination of Parental Rights… but I gave as many chances as the state and the federal government would allow to give to parents… and I refused to take a relinquishment unless the parent went home and thought about it…one man I made wait six months because I knew he was angry at his ex wife…
      … and now I am all upset for you and those parents and those children all over again… there are a couple of books written about this evil woman…
      my warrior spirit is wanting to go fight for you…

      1. seingraham

        Thanks all, for your many kind and insightful comments. Except for the bit about the day – the rest is pretty much exactly as my birth-mother told me, only not on the phone – in person, the first time we met. It was in Toronto, Canada – and I don’t think Children’s Aid was all that evil, just not that well-informed, or able to conceive (poor word-choice) of the pain that unwed mothers experienced. It was in the age where they didn’t share info either; when I was finally handed over to my adoptive parents (this was after being moved 13 times in my first year of life – something I didn’t learn until late in life) – they were told, “she yours and your history is now her history” and they were expected to believe it and carry on as if it was so. Sorry – I get caught up in this story so easily. Thank you all again for commenting. It means more than I can say. SEI

  20. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    My weak poem

    Monday’s poem is but a draft.
    Tuesday’s poem shall hone my craft.
    Wednesday’s poem is only a test.
    Thursday’s poem is raw at best.
    Friday’s poem is awful long.
    Saturday’s poem is nearly done.
    Sunday’s poem will be a hit, I bet…
    Wait! Don’t fall asleep just yet.

  21. tunesmiff

    TWO FOR TUESDAY
    G. Smith
    ~≈~≈~≈~
    Two for Tuesday,
    One for Wednesday,
    Three for Thursday,
    Five for Friday,
    All for Saturday
    and Sunday;
    Alas,
    None for Monday.

  22. KM

    7.
    We’ll meet on Friday. Frigga’s day. ‘Oh, Odin’s wife?’ you might ask, if you dig that Norse mythology stuff, and I’d bristle, lip pulled into a sneer. The default, still, to define the her by the him. Male adjacent. And it bugs me. But it might not bother Frigga, love goddess and all. ‘It’s unity, not hierarchy,’ Frigga might whisper in my ear, weaving my hair as she wove the clouds. ‘Love is perfect balance, do you see?’ And I might. The feathery breath of divinity warm and soft on my neck. And did she see, with her powers to do just that? Her own future, a uniform unfolding, one day into the next and the next? What good is precognition if you’re powerless to move? When you’re destined to sit, spin at the wheel, know and know you can do nothing? Friday is on the cusp, the end and the start. For Frigga, I open to you all I was and hope to be.

    – Kim Mannix
    http://www.makesmesodigress.com

  23. cbwentworth

    Days of the Week

    I.
    3 a.m.
    counting the days
    since you left

    II.
    aftermath
    another school day starts
    flags at half-staff

    III.
    light rain
    dims the light
    Sunday nap

    Days of the Weak

    flurries swirl
    faded maple leaves
    can’t hold on

  24. Sara McNulty

    Days of the Week

    On Sundays, shimmering rays of sun slant through slats of window blinds.
    On Mondays, melancholy music meanders through my mind.
    On Tuesdays, tubular bells tamper my tears.
    On Wednesdays, woebegone waifs wish at store windows.
    On Thursdays, thick-necked thugs are thwarted by Tom Thumb.
    On Fridays, frisky kittens frolic free from fear.
    On Saturdays, statuesque stunners are draped in satin sheaths.

    Days of The Weak

    Welcomes wither
    on the vine
    as the country’s
    grapes sour,
    and shrivel
    in a new vineyard
    of vitriol.

  25. lsteadly

    Weak Days

    Sometimes I cry when you leave
    me for yet another business trip,
    the days of travel accumulating
    in detrimental numbers

    Your absence grows worse now
    that we have crested the hill,
    find ourselves on the other side

    Shouldn’t we be together
    this morning watching the low
    fog seep between the bare trees
    instead of me filling the hours
    with mindless tasks to forget
    the emptiness of our rooms?

    Sometimes on Monday nights I turn
    on the tv just to hear the calls
    announced as the players move
    down the field, imagine
    your smile when the pass is complete

  26. tunesmiff

    WEAK-END
    G. Smith (BMI)
    ––···–––···––
    I’m gonna muscle into Monday,
    Soon as I get out of bed,
    Drink my cup of coffee,
    To soothe my aching head.

    Take a last look ’round the kitchen,
    Before I hit the door;
    Pull out on the highway,
    And rush on into rush hour,
    Once more, once more;
    Rush on into rush hour once more.

    What happened to the weekend?
    Two days gone too fast;
    Five full days to get there,
    No way to make ’em last.
    Now I’m in dragging on toward Friday,
    Each day seems so long;
    Work weak, weak-end,
    Seems to be my song.
    Work weak, weak-end,
    When I want to finish strong.

    Waiting on the whistle,
    Wednesday’s almost through,
    Hump day shouldn’t be so rough,
    But what else can you do.

    Hafta thunder into Thursday,
    The finish line in sight,
    Hit the clock at quitting time,
    And blow out Friday night;
    Hit the clock at quitting time,
    And blow out Friday night.

    What will happen to the weekend?
    Two days go too fast;
    Five full days to get here,
    No way to make ’em last.
    Now I’m in dragging into Friday,
    This day seems so long;
    Work weak, weak-end,
    Seems to be my song.
    Work weak, weak-end,
    When I want to finish strong.

    Chores galore on Saturday,
    Siesta Sunday after noon,
    Try not to think about,
    How Monday’s here so soon.

    What happened to the weekend?
    Two days gone too fast;
    Five full days to get there,
    No way to make ’em last.
    Now I’m in heading back to Friday,
    Each day seems so long,
    Work weak, weak-end,
    Seems to be my song.
    Work weak, weak-end,
    When I want to finish strong.

  27. robinamelia

    Circular Dreams

    In my father’s day, circular reasoning was a trap,
    a loop of faulty logic that would drown us all,
    or at least make one of us run from the dinner table.

    Now circular thinking is our hope.
    On Monday we eat peanuts
    on Tuesday, the shells become particle board:

    By Wednesday, we dine upon the peanut shell table
    staying calm and never running away.
    We insulate with potatoes. Dress ourselves in citrus peels.

    Bathe in cornflakes. Climb ladders of mushrooms.
    We can build Wonderland
    from the untapped value of waste.

  28. MET

    Perfect, Just Perfect

    The old dogwood had stood a hundred summers,
    Even summers with little rain.
    Its bark a jigsaw of perfectly fitted pieces.
    In Spring its flowers greeted all travelers
    Who happened down this dirt road
    To the house in woods.

    But part of it died
    And fifteen years ago
    That part was removed
    In hopes that the old dogwood
    Would have a few more blooms.

    The woman who lived here
    Came in her early sixties…
    She loved the dogwoods…
    Each spring she watched for the emerging buds
    Of the flowers that made
    Clouds of billowing white
    Floating through the forest.
    She saw them bloom
    One last time the spring
    She turned ninety-three.
    As she touched each bloom…
    She said, “Perfect, just perfect.”

    There were draughts after the woman left;
    The old dogwood began to weaken.
    In its last spring its blossoms
    Floated on the air,
    And the wind seemed to whisper,
    “Perfect, Just perfect.”
    In the fall, the old tree
    Let its last leaves drift
    To the ground…
    A circle of crimson
    Like the red berry crown
    It wore each winter
    Where the flowers of spring
    Had once been.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 7, 2017

  29. AFPrice

    A Week of Weakness

    Sunday I buy chips and eat some too
    Tuesday I swear off but the chips just flew
    to the bowl where they were just the day before
    Wednesday I decide not to go to the store
    I finish up the bag on Wednesday night
    Thursday is the day where the sun shines bright
    so bright I buy a bag to just see me through
    the weekend that is coming and I already knew
    every day of the week I’ve eaten chip – chip – chip
    they’re so very salty they’ll look good on my hip
    Friday and Saturday the chips I’ll seek
    because ev’ry single day I am weak – weak – weak
    —————

  30. Walter J Wojtanik

    SOMEDAY NEVER COMES

    Boxes on the calendar with a case of the nothing doings,
    promises of someday borrow from our stores of hope.
    Thumbs-down judgements and disapproving booing,
    and boxes on the calendar with a case of the nothing doings.
    But who has the time for negative boo-hooing?
    You don’t want to end up a forlorn dope.
    Boxes on the calendar with a case of the nothing doings,
    promises of someday borrow from our stores of hope.

  31. Linowen

    TUESDAY

    What day is it?” he said, and
    I had to stop and think.
    “It’s Tuesday, Brother.”
    His slow question searched for
    direction in which ‘day’ the
    long, green pill holder should be
    opened to.

    My brother is stage 4. The
    diagnosis came out of the proverbial
    clear blue sky, but that was months ago,
    and now he is weakening, pretty much
    day by day.

    The best efforts of great doctors,
    diligent nurses, and a wife who
    waits on him at all hours can’t add
    more days than fate will allow.

    They’ve all done their best.
    Brother is doing his best.
    Sister-in-law is doing her best.
    Others wait in the wings.

    Brother’s attitude is steady and
    never discouraged. A life of faith
    Is helping him walk on water.

    At some point the waters of weakness
    beyond strength will
    Welcome him home. Faith is
    carrying him there.

    He told me today of a time when
    He heard our mother calling to him,
    “Earl Edward, is that you?” Three times
    she called, each time, her voice a little
    weaker.

    It was at her casket when he heard
    her that last time. Her voice was
    clear, he said. …and for his ears only.

    He will hear her again.
    “Earl Edward, is that you!”
    Some days are the best for
    birthdays.

    1. MET

      Just lovely… about six weeks before my mother died… she told us that she had a banquet she was going to go to the end of April or the beginning of May but was not sure of the day… So she proceeded to invite about 200 dead people….planned her meal and she died on April 29, 2008 so since then I say… to people who have died…”welcome to your banquet” and I am sure your mother and many others will be there to celebrate at his banquet.

  32. AsWritten

    SIGHT FOR THE BLINDED by Ken Bentz

    The day is quiet
    like the sky devoured us.

    It may as well.
    We’re all hungry anyway.
    We have souls for food,
    the spiritual kind.

    But they’re sour
    and spoiled like leftover
    celestial dust.

    And we’re blowing
    through life like
    magnets pulled through
    portals of time, Monday through Friday.

    We’re floating
    like beams of light
    riding on the tips of
    angel wings.

  33. De Jackson

    Mango Sky

    It’s 4:30 A.M. on a Tuesday
    It doesn’t get much worse than this
    In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle
    of these lives which are completely meaningless
                  Counting Crows, Perfect Blue Buildings

    The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
                                                – Henry David Thoreau

    We watched Monday’s sun slide into the ocean
    like a sliver of fruit slurped into all that salt,

    and you asked me what I wanted. Like it was a
    real question; like I could just come out and say

    all the things that had been stuck against my
    tired tongue for two years. Like the tears hadn’t

    said anything at all. Like I didn’t feel small and
    strange in my own skin, beginning to change

    into someone else, someone who no longer knew
    her own name. That sun’s gonna come right back

    up again soon, and I still have no answer for you,
    no words to say what my heart knows to be true,

    no way to punch through this eraser dust and
    silence. I’ve got truths, I just don’t know how

    to reach them, how to teach them they might
    matter, how to smatter them against this coal

    black scrim and hold them to themselves, make
    them stay. Meanwhile, the sky’s already changing.

    ::

  34. Kayla

    You’re My Weakness

    I have this headache that lasts all day
    I can’t stand feeling this way
    I don’t want to talk to myself
    I just wanna put these thoughts on the shelf
    I think about you all the time
    And it hurts to say with every rhyme
    That you’re starting to kill me
    Before you my head was empty
    But now you’re inside my head
    And I rather be dead
    Because thoughts drive me insane
    Please don’t make me play this game
    I can’t live this way anymore
    I miss how things were before
    You found me and got close
    That’s when you forced me this dose
    Of poison that wouldn’t kill me
    It would just make me go crazy
    And now I’ve stopped breathing
    But there’s air all around me
    You mock me with these chains
    I can see the red in your name
    You’re running free but they say you’re gone
    Then why can I see you after it’s been so long
    Is this just my own mind playing with me
    Maybe I’m the one who can make me free
    But guess what for reasons I can’t
    I’m just simply stuck in this rant
    With constant thoughts of you
    What do I have to do
    To make you leave me alone
    I simply just wanna go home
    Don’t let them take me away
    I really don’t wanna stay
    Please can’t you just let me cry
    And stop stopping me every time I try

  35. AsWritten

    DAYS OF THE WEAK by Ken Bentz

    If you do it once,
    no one will know.

    If no one knows,
    and you get caught
    the second time,
    people will think
    you only did it once.

    If by chance,
    you didn’t get caught
    and chose to submit again,
    you now have a habit –
    which may be fine
    if no one ever knows.

  36. De Jackson

    {Wherein She Centers Her Chi Over Chai Tea}

    Beat your plowshares into swords and your pruning hooks into spears;
    Let the weak say, “I am a mighty man.” – Joel 3:10

    Let’s say these scars are the places
    the sun shines through. The places the
    world leaked in. The spaces we’ve had,
    and been. The places we’ve seeped and
    steeped ourselves in sorrow, hope
    and loss. Let’s sharpen our own rough
    edges on their tattered tear, share
    the crosses they might bear and
    raise ourselves again, from dust.

    What sayeth thee?

    Bold phrase,
         weak tea.

    ::

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