We homeschool with pride
But ideals become frayed hope.
Friends are fewer than cows.
He begs for friends.
So I cave.
I send him to reverberating halls.
They echo bells,
And laughs,
Slamming lockers,
sneakers.
His bell rings a week later
Than Minneapolis.
Their first day the halls echo,
Of bells,
And laughs,
Then gunfire,
… sneakers.
He can’t grow alone.
But will he die for friends?
Are these the options?
Why have these gardens
become graveyards?
Ground which blossomed possibility
Just soaks up blood.
Halls that once rang with joy
Echo only terror from the start.
Will we stop sowing tender seeds
Of gentle thoughts
And impassioned prayers?
Their tendrils reach for sunlight slowly.
And the fruit of this ground is death.
What spade must we grasp
To cut the weeds at the heart?
About the Creator
Meagan Dion
Hi, my name is Meagan. I am a mom to four kiddos whom I homeschool. I am also a glassblower, creator, and writer. I aspire to finish and publish my memoir, but it's going to take a lot of time and coffee. Coffee is a verb, do you coffee?
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More stories from Meagan Dion and writers in Poets and other communities.
Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts4 days ago in Longevity
Comments (1)
Powerful and heartbreaking piece do you write poetry often or was this born from a specific moment of inspiration?