Six days. . .

Howdy, true believers. Next week I'm entering a competition that is, in essence, a single-poem slam. I would love if you read the piece I'm considering and helped me in revising it. Comments (try not to be too inflammatory; I haven't mastered that "mind over ego" thing yet lol) welcome!


Microcosm

I woke up with morning with the whole universe in my hands.
Origami north stars outlining a liquid-paper moon
fading into the distance as the sun comes out to play
with the planets sitting on my palm.
I see the world, driven before me, all the brushstrokes
painting the big picture teachers told me I’d never see,
neglecting to mention that pictures can be scaled down.
What’s microcosmic?

I’ve seen your face before
but the hello from my lips is as misplaced as vulnerability to a stranger.
You don’t know who I am but I want you to feel something today
like the homeless man whose face lit up
and whose smile could’ve answered God’s plea for light when I spared a dollar
and some change. Four quarters and the time it took to plant the seeds of hope in the hopeless
and it made my solar system vibrant.
What’s microcosmic?

That dew on the point of a rose’s thorn has adorned it since the dawn of dawn.
Days like these don’t sprout spontaneously from the climaxes of our wildest dreams;
You just started dreaming as though dreams could never be real.
As if we couldn’t feel the embrace of a world in flux,
as if we haven’t felt it for lives on end
I hold lives on end. Hold a magnifying glass to the planet
so close I can taste colors, pull back until I’m nearly blinded by blindsiding beauty
of a day you could fall in love on,
just to get a better perspective on things,
giving vivacity to creation.

Those things you pass on your journey to work or class
have been there the whole time; do you remember them?
Or were we too wrapped up in looking at the what
quantifying all things breathtaking with accolades
all “ist” and no “art”
all what and no why.

Look at all the kids ignoring religions and races
scribbling names into the faces of mother nature
like sharp-edged “RIP innocence” signs in the bark of trees.
I want to hold on to that time like a child to mommy’s hand and never let go
but I’m an adult now. Leaning too heavily on my imaginary stars in miniature
trying to fly with a post-adolescent body left wingless
forgetting that at one time I knew how to be
and forgetting that at one time feeling was more than touch and go.
What’s microcosmic?

Can you help me find my glasses, and my vision?
Of a red-hot summer silhouetted in white where
Love love love love love love love
makes the worlds go round, giving birth to motion?
Is it so silly to believe in the beauty of a world
I’ve been taught my whole life is an ugly place?
The beauty of a world where the roofless are left behind,
and graves are the only places roses grow from concrete?
The big picture is right in front of you.
All you have to do is open your fucking eyes!
What’s microcosmic?

I’m an adult now.
And these days I hold the universe on my fingertips like a basketball
both tumors on my hands at different phases of my life.
I’m an adult now.
And these days I’ve got hair that doesn’t sit like I want it to,
a tragically unpleasant disposition and a fucked-up definition of immortality.
I’m an adult now.
And these days I’ve got the getting old blues
and these days I feel younger than ever.
I’m a walking mass of complexes, don’t like introductions as much as goodbyes,
am a raging hypocrite with a titanic imagination and I’m ready to embrace it.
What’s microcosmic? This, life, is my world in miniature.