last year was my first year in Central Michigan University’s Word Hammer slam poetry club. we hold a few slam competitions each year and meet weekly on Tuesday’s nights for workshopping and critiquing. tonight we did free writes based from prompts given to us by our president, Ariel. the first free write we were given the word “shot” and had to create a poem from it. here’s my result:
for three years i’ve been taking shots to the arm,
triceps swelling weekly only to decrease in time for another shot.
i was picked and poked for reasons i didn’t quite believe in.
the doctor said it would help.
my parents were desperate to stop the sniffling and sneezing.
i was caught in a conundrum.
i didn’t much care for the runny noses, sleepless nights spent up blowing me nose and the itchy, watery eyes that kept me inside while everyone else was enjoying spring time.
however, going into a building full of grey chairs and white walls didn’t sound appealing either.
i never crave the sensation of a needle,
and i hate the smell of those weird latex gloves,
but allergy shots were the only thing that could save me when Claritin, Zyrtec, and seven other off brand allergy medicines decided not to work for me.
the dust had taken over.
the pollen had crippled me.
the cats had controlled me.
they scratched at my swollen throat, swelled my tear blurred eyes, and left me breathless, desperate for a strong inhale through my nose
and out my mouth
the way breathing should be, so effortless like that.
for the second prompt we had to write a poem about ourselves that is entirely untrue. here’s what i churned out:
i love people with bad grammar.
i love when people drown their papers in y-o-u-r instead of y-o-u-r-‘-e.
it really…gets me off.
just like when people claim they have “seent this girl.”
when i see that it’s almost as if i seent the future and was already in bed with them.
it’s hard for me to not love when people tell me to go to t-h-e-r-e house and when i ask them where “there” is they explain that it’s over t-h-e-i-r.
it’s like they really know how to tickle my fancy.
bad grammar should be utilized more often,
but not everyone can pull it off.
bad grammar is too fancy for people wearing suit coats and ties.
bad grammar is showcased and perfected by the most intellectual people on this earth.
bad grammar is…sexy.
i love when people replaced letters with symbols like money signs because that’s all everyone looks for anyways.
money captures everyone’s attention and i absolutely love attention seeking trash.
obviously, i’m a fan of grammar, even though, without fail, i always type “grammer” instead of “grammar” at first. anyways, the next prompt we were given the word “voodoo”:
there is one person in particular that i wouldn’t mind making a voodoo doll for.
i lived with her for three years,
went to school with her for four years before that,
and believe me, that was way too long to know her.
she’s one of those people who i want to punch in the face…and i’m not usually a violent person.
however, i do fall into a daydream from time to time of me pushing her down the stairs…
into a pile of pillows, of course. i mean, i’m not trying to kill the girl…
but i would thoroughly enjoy talking her off of my old porch.
the porch at the house i found for us and our friends to live in.
the porch of the house she still lives in with “friends” who’s backbones are made of silk.
maybe i should make voodoo dolls for them too…
but i should start out small to test things out…
she was so stubborn in her ways and she always has been.
she would argue even when numbers proved her wrong.
she’s also a pathological liar so for that, i would poke that voodoo doll in the mouth with my pencil and make her taste the weight of the lead she filled my body with.
she did nothing but bring me down.
so for that she would get a stab in the foot just hard enough to make her trip as far as i did when she claimed i was a criminal.
you see, that’s where her lying comes in.
and her stubbornness comes in when she sits next to her boyfriend showing off their smirk covered faces.
i would cover her face with bumblebees so she could feel how much personal attacks stick.
my mind still rings with her stupid sounding voice accompanied with memory montages that mold to my eyelids every time i squeeze them in hopes to forget.
i want to forget about her.
so for that, her voodoo doll would get thrown away with the tuesday night trash.
essentially, she would be a waste of materials.
i’m clearly a little bitter, but what better way to remove those feelings than to put them into words and spit them out? writing is release at it’s finest.