Poetry: My Last Script

From all the letters
I had the stage
after picking through every page.
There was patience
winking at repetition.
I phased out on fatigue
chewed humor lines
I said some parts louder.
One character looked like mother
always patting my anger,
food served in a play
Eaten in my thoughts
but swallowed by satire.
Yes my last script for the week
Came through a broken door
with two of Father’s act.
I borrowed mother’s smile
and became my audience

And each scene had sins
some were kisses
or wornout love
some carried her type of smile
and others her scent
but all these were on stage
a way to suppress my rage.
My last script is done
this is the final page
don’t flip through for more

Ruddapoet
============================================
I think up a title
And pick up a pen.
I write of sketchy characters
And play with their lives.
I plot out the conflict
And fence the opposing war.
I put on throne the king.
I leave him without a queen
And make him walk into a battle
That love would never cure.
I kill the king
I install a prince.
I swerve and turn around the plot
And then make for a perfect end.

I stop to think of death.
I pause to think of life.
I write again
I tear a sheet
I tear a sheet
I write again
This story won’t make sense.

I start to think again
I pick a book and read out loud
And then i wear a smile.
I find a fairy character.
I find a fairy cave.
I make a fairy family
and add a fairytale.
I think a thought
and type a note.
I wriggle to the end.

I find my final period
And make myself a dot.
This is how i sweat and squeeze
To get one final script.

Leonell
============================================
A list of poems.
A list of things.
A list of summarized words.
A list for Dad.
A list provided for mom.
A list of chaos
A list of final words.
Selected themes and uneven titles.
A list of broken hearts.

Hypermind
============================================
I will pick a golden pen
My thoughts arranged
Drop by drop
I’ll write on age
On grace
On family
Then love
Maybe a little romance

Ink by ink
I’ll paint words
I’ll touch my soul
I’ll touch my essence
I’ll touch your soul
I’ll inspire your essence
Maybe i’ll inhale Jane
My first at old age
Then i’ll be ready for death

Omolola J.
============================================
The protagonist suffers
A stage is set
Lights are on
Flashing a birth
Heroine sings along
A joyful song
But the Villian
He ain’t triggered by their success
He silently kissed a snake
Now a venom lives in him
He is almost reaching for the Hero
Then catharsis set in
Act 2, scene 2

The baby grows to not know his home
Seen begging on the street
Heroine passed her only son
See what the Villain did
He separated Mother from Child
Caused a wreck
Tragedy defined this plot
With blood and wails
She lost her only son.

Rachel Charles
============================================
My final script
In my head I fantasize,
Make a face, then name,
It’s always about a girl…

A man planning to woo.
Charming, classy, perfect,
The knight with a diamond moon.

She always starts off coy,
Later she coos,
And then a fairy a tale.

This is my last script
Hell, or rapture.
It seeks to capture
Emptiness, silence,
And ghosts.

It is a script I’ll perform in,
Could be dialogue,
A monologue,
Or just jest chores.

It doesn’t have an ending,
The body was without form,
Forming without head,
The missing head was key.

It spilled more ink,
Trashed more papers,
And broke more sweat.

Then I change my mind.
It had to be primal,
Couldn’t stand a rival,
Last note is never final.

Vera
==============================================
1 to 5,
One must get a bed,
warm blankets, big smiles, and cuddly arms!

6 to 12!
Wonders people your dreams,
more to see!
Miracles to hear!
A book!
A film!
A sound…
And who is she in fancy ribbons dressed?

13 to 19!
None comes least,
love and acceptance,
cigarettes and coffee gone stale!
Late night searching for numbers unending!

To make up a list for 20, and the 9 to 5 speed train,
which at 30 to 40,
becomes impossible to catch!

Now memory fades!
Alphabet thins and fewer letters glow
in the dim light hour

So much now, for morning prayers!
Beyond the coffin, you just might fill
I mean feel
You’re back at 1 to 5!

–OracLe
===========================================
I’d like it written
on a big white board
with a paint brush
and yellow ink
about the days before the last
how there was a girl
with big, brown eyes
with slender hands
with rounded hips
with stomach she wished was flatter
with pens
with lenses
with papers and thoughts
She tried what she could
Most of all
I’ll like the last script
to be epic

Jennifer Dafwat