Making maps of childhood
Exploring great unknowns
Escaping to uncharted woods
To fix my broken homes
From the sharpened sticks and stone
And the daggers often thrown
Though blunt and made of silverware
They cut through bone and love we shared
So always I alone
Was left to save the fantasies
In words I wrote and read
And picture perfect families
Envisioned in my head
For the dreams that made my bed
Free from monsters that I fled
By casting fears like spells abound
When under covers I then found
My nightmare light to shed
On each house-divided page
And unhappy never endings
In this tale of coming rage
Torn out from my notebook rendings
To a tune of doom impendings
As the heroes of my youth defendings
Vanquished all my villains slain
With a sword of growing pain
Pulled out from my play-pretendings
Ever I, the dragon's bane
About the Creator
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More stories from Michael Brandon Marchese and writers in Poets and other communities.
The First Hairline Cracks
The first cracks never look like cracks. They don’t arrive with drama or warning. They don’t announce themselves as danger. They hide inside the very things that feel like power — speed, clarity, momentum, capability. That’s why they’re so easy to miss. That’s why they’re so dangerous.
By Elisa Wontorcika day ago in Poets
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