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Best Poems Written by Incipient Poet

Below are the all-time best Incipient Poet poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Incipient Poet Poem

An Internal Dialogue of Uncertainty

Bring it up.
Shove it down.
Hate, accept, hate, accept, hate again.
This can't be me.
...could it be?
Not fully female, not fully something else.
Slowly changing, never the same. 
She/her? I guess that's fine.
They/them? Maybe sometimes.
What is it?
Do I want to know?
When I learn the answer, will it be something impossible? 
Something hateful? 
Something I could never be?
I guess we'll see.

Details | Incipient Poet Poem

The church is a man made institution - or - I may have religious trauma; can you tell

How dare they take the words from
Your mouth and the nails from
Your hands
and pass them off as from
their own flesh and blood.
They, who never bled a single drop in the name of others,
have crafted a halo of thorns
and adorn it,
”holy”
(self indulgent, self proclaimed).
What gives them the right
to denounce their equals
and lash the whip over their neighbor’s back?
Don’t they know that every drop of Your blood that touched the earth
sowed seeds of ceaseless forgiveness?
That every splatter ricocheted off the dirt
and echoed the promise “I love you”?
Holy? Wholly?
They know nothing of Your word;
they only twist it to tighten chains
they bind around the black sheep.
Little do they know their wool,
once white in Your hands,
is stained dark as sin.

Details | Incipient Poet Poem

Breathe In, Breathe Out, Start Typing

Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.

Details | Incipient Poet Poem

F-CK YOU - On Cybercoercion

It’s been 10 years since you last saw me.
I’m softer. Matured. Unrecognizable. And yet 
the feeling of your roaming eyes still darkens my skin,
the phantom sensations making me retch.
Your vile intentions occupy a corner of my brain
with no sign of conceding territory.
I can’t go to the doctor
lest that hotel room comes rushing back
and renders me unable to bear sight of my skin for a week.
I swear colorfully,
as often as I did refusing you.
Would you like that? 
Would you take pleasure being reminded of the resistance you so toyed with?
Or would you prefer me docile and doe-eyed?
God, I can’t think of a version of me that wouldn’t bring that greed to your mind.
I can only hope my age would shatter your desire
or turn it to ash on your tongue.

You’re a faceless monster,
carefully calculating and breaking down your victims’ walls
without revealing a hint of yourself in return.
I showed you everything.
(I want to gag at the thought.)
I know nothing of you.
You make up too much of me.

I used to find joy in who I was.
Believed my difference to be wholly my own,
an escape from you and the shaming eyes of God.
Turns out you were the cause all along.
You wrecked me, didn’t you? 
Is what was once a source of pride truly a stain of ruin?
I am disfigured and discolored,
and no amount of bleach will ever remove your mark.

To add insult to injury, this was never bad enough anyway. 
My ache is unwarranted; I’ve suffered so little in comparison.
I was 10.
I was smart enough to log off,
to say no,
to realize no dream was important enough to surrender myself over.
I’m not a true victim.
Your hands never grazed my skin 
or caused deeper harm; you scarred me with eyes alone.
Our paths crossed for maybe an hour or two,
not nearly enough to last a lifetime.
So why have you staked your claim on my psyche?
I want to burn you clean from me.
You forced me into a prop for your pleasure,
faceless and inhuman.
There’s no telling if you sold what was never meant to be seen
and then how many times I’ve been used. 
I want you to suffer.
I want you to ache.
Maybe that’s immature,
but that turns you on, right?

Best Poems Written by Incipient Poet

Apricity

My Personal Echo Chamber

An Internal Dialogue of Uncertainty

I’ll be gone this summer

The church is a man made institution - or - I may have religious trauma; can you tell

Who am I without achievement?

Decade Old Boat

Blackbody

Breathe In, Breathe Out, Start Typing

F-CK YOU - On Cybercoercion