Reflecting on My Metaphor

i am a typewriter and someone else is pressing the keys

i am a match that won’t light

i am yarn, frayed and unraveling

i am glue that never dries

i am words written backwards

i am a stone that can’t skip

i am lukewarm coffee

i am a pen out of ink

i am an empty spool of thread

i am a threadbare sweater

i am a left sock without a right

i am a flower, always wilting

i am written in an unspoken language

i am all consonants and no vowels

i am a broken vase, not yet mended with gold

i am a butterfly with broken wings

i am an owl without voice

i am loaded scales with no counter weights


Painfully aware
of the shape of my own face,
as I squinted to avoid
the heat of the sun
and I thought I could see
better beyond the curve,
just as I thought the wall
would protect me from the wind
blowing in the wrong direction.
Maybe there’s a metaphor here,
if you find it
you’re more poetic than I
because I was only being literal.

broken english language arts

youll be here in a few hours
but then youll be gone again
headed south
always such a contradiction
south but going up a mountain

maybe theres a metaphor in here
or some other literary reference
ive forgotten most of what was taught
in all those years of ela in school
and three college writing classes

its sad how we forget important things
like proper english and our first love
even here i dont bother to remember
the first at least
him ill always remember

but i believe he forgets me
at least when shes standing in front of him
how could he possibly see me
when she pretends to be so perfect
i hate hockey but i do love race cars

but this morning youll head north first
and maybe for a minute youll remember
your first love
both of your first loves i guess
remember love and remembering me will be simple

*In response to South.