They have it. The control. The precision.
I watch as their back curves,
Legs stable and position perfect,
And they swing! It's a strike!
Off it soars and soars and soars,
A streaking star in the sky,
And we all know it's a home run.
But they turn to me with a shrug
And say, "Need to practice again tomorrow."
Maybe that's where their acting falls short.
They don't see the ball,
Even when it flies out of the window,
Joining the clouds of the cosmos.
I tell them as much, but it doesn't stick.
They watch the movies again and again,
Eyes glued to the kicks and the shotgun
As if they might reap something new.
Maybe my words won't ever pierce their heart.
They don't look at me,
Even when I watch them watch the movies.
Maybe if I was that guy in the corner,
And not the girl with the pencil,
I could fire my words,
Click, clack, bang!
And the words would hit.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoetryExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
