PoetrySlammers??
I'm thinking about reapplying to PoetrySlamming [it's been about a year]. So I'd really appreciate comments from you guys. This is a Sestina [six stanzas, and one envoi, using six words that must be systematically arranged] thanks!
Sun drifts bright against her walls, painted gold.
She peeks reluctantly at her alarm clock with fear,
and knows that there are unending hours before she’s done.
She looks longingly at her novel,
feels closer to tears than a smile,
and sadly tells herself there’s not enough time.
Wrapped in wool she braves the cold, thinking how time
spins so fast. She remembers when the leaves were gold.
The perfect hue, one she prefers, it’s light and dark, and makes her smile.
Wind assaults her skin, and warns of fierce winter. She fears
she’ll give up on life, hiding at home, reading mundane novels.
She walks reluctantly, wishing it was over; wishing she was done.
She knows there are unending hours before she’s done.
She shivers, and picks up speed to ensure she arrives on time,
but she’s late already, and wishes she had brought her novel.
She realizes she does too much wishing, always looking for the pot of gold,
She realizes she could stop with the wishes, and charge ahead fear-
lessly. But the snow begins to shimmer down, distracting her, she smiles.
The sun creeps out slowly, the snow spins in the light; a smile
shared by girl and world. She begins to think it’s ok she won’t be done
for hours, and it’s ok she only likes winter when it doesn’t cause her fear.
It might even be ok, she thinks, that she can’t feel romantic all the time
like she used to. She notices a leaf beneath the new blanket of snow, peeking gold
from the drifty precipitation. The wind even felt noble. A novel
impression; one she had read in one of the many novels
exhibiting her city and it’s dark days, it’s windy smile:
sneaky and unrelenting. She shares the common opinion that a gold-
en sunset is nice, but prefers when the day is done.
Everything sleeps but her, it seems, and she has time
to brood, and smoke, and furiously face her fears
with a pen in hand, creating stories of fear-
less heroines. A fearless girl in a novel
is better than none. So is a girl who doesn’t wish all the time.
She approaches the sixth block, and smiles
a real romantic smile this time. The walk is almost done,
and that’s something, at least to her. Her gold-
spun reveries, and the silvery wintry smile
[shared by girl and world] assure her she’ll be done
soon enough, creating this moment in her room of gold.
Sun drifts bright against her walls, painted gold.
She peeks reluctantly at her alarm clock with fear,
and knows that there are unending hours before she’s done.
She looks longingly at her novel,
feels closer to tears than a smile,
and sadly tells herself there’s not enough time.
Wrapped in wool she braves the cold, thinking how time
spins so fast. She remembers when the leaves were gold.
The perfect hue, one she prefers, it’s light and dark, and makes her smile.
Wind assaults her skin, and warns of fierce winter. She fears
she’ll give up on life, hiding at home, reading mundane novels.
She walks reluctantly, wishing it was over; wishing she was done.
She knows there are unending hours before she’s done.
She shivers, and picks up speed to ensure she arrives on time,
but she’s late already, and wishes she had brought her novel.
She realizes she does too much wishing, always looking for the pot of gold,
She realizes she could stop with the wishes, and charge ahead fear-
lessly. But the snow begins to shimmer down, distracting her, she smiles.
The sun creeps out slowly, the snow spins in the light; a smile
shared by girl and world. She begins to think it’s ok she won’t be done
for hours, and it’s ok she only likes winter when it doesn’t cause her fear.
It might even be ok, she thinks, that she can’t feel romantic all the time
like she used to. She notices a leaf beneath the new blanket of snow, peeking gold
from the drifty precipitation. The wind even felt noble. A novel
impression; one she had read in one of the many novels
exhibiting her city and it’s dark days, it’s windy smile:
sneaky and unrelenting. She shares the common opinion that a gold-
en sunset is nice, but prefers when the day is done.
Everything sleeps but her, it seems, and she has time
to brood, and smoke, and furiously face her fears
with a pen in hand, creating stories of fear-
less heroines. A fearless girl in a novel
is better than none. So is a girl who doesn’t wish all the time.
She approaches the sixth block, and smiles
a real romantic smile this time. The walk is almost done,
and that’s something, at least to her. Her gold-
spun reveries, and the silvery wintry smile
[shared by girl and world] assure her she’ll be done
soon enough, creating this moment in her room of gold.