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Jennifer Macarthur Poem
Virginity, the state of never having had sexual intercourse,
The state of being naïve, innocent, or inexperienced in a particular context,
Thought of as almost congenital awkwardness, a disease,
Sex being something you cannot allow yourself to get, a disease for a girl.
Something to get rid of, a disease for a boy.
Virginity being something sacred and to be cherished,
Sex is exciting, and hot, and almost a prerequisite for your first year of college,
Something sad, something hot, something bad, all of these things and it is-
Virginity, the state of never having had sexual intercourse.
Copyright © Jennifer Macarthur | Year Posted 2017
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Jennifer Macarthur Poem
Ex, T-Rex, Box, Spandex, Sex, Tux.
Ex, a person who used to make you the happiest,
Ex, an ******* you are better off not having in your life.
T-Rex, the mightiest of the dinosaurs,
T-Rex, also a reminder that even the greatest things can die out.
Box, a cardboard container for something from a loved one,
Box, a place you put thoughts in your head to avoid addressing them.
Spandex, the material that stretches across my skin to look skinny again,
Spandex, the material that gives me hives from sticking to my skin with sweat
Sex, the eye opening experience that brings you closer to your person,
Sex, the legs opening experience that hurts like a son of a *****.
Tux, the suit men put on before seeing their blushing bride.
Tux, the suit men put on before settling into their final resting place.
Ex, T-Rex, Box, Spandex, Sex, Tux.
Copyright © Jennifer Macarthur | Year Posted 2017
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Jennifer Macarthur Poem
Regurgitated info spills out of my ears,
I read the passage for the tenth time.
Pointless analyzed text pours out of my mouth,
Technical terms burning holes in my creative mind.
Efforts upon efforts supporting a theme,
Whilst my poetry slips away.
Taking another’s creation of art
And tearing it apart like we’re inhumane.
Blood drips out of the carcass of art in form of
Motifs, characters, metaphor, and setting
All used to describe the art in a way,
In a way the author likely didn’t intend.
Themes destroy originality and creation,
But we’re intellectual if we find one throughout.
Someone’s story meant to convey their own tale,
Used, while we make it our own, like we understood.
Life is art and we squeeze and we squeeze,
Until life no longer remains.
We scratch and we mangle till the art has now crumbled,
And the reader still burdened with disdain.
Copyright © Jennifer Macarthur | Year Posted 2017
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Jennifer Macarthur Poem
Late
I’m running late. Time keeps rolling on and spills
Over into other moments I’m not ready for. I run late again,
The world still turning and bustling, the time passing irreversible.
Life runs from me at full speed waiting for me to come stumbling behind.
I run,
To the ends of the Earth as I smear makeup across my face-
While driving, even. My life runs until I can’t run anymore
At the end.
With lives ending and new lives beginning, at the beginning
And end of everything is time running by.
I’m running late,
For graduations, for weddings, for funerals,
For life.
I’ve got too much running to do, even with endless amounts of time,
I’m still running late;
Anxiety provoking and shameful and offensive and-
Late
Copyright © Jennifer Macarthur | Year Posted 2017
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Jennifer Macarthur Poem
There's a leak in the roof,
an unsightly, irritating, dripping leak in the roof.
He said he'd fix it before...
Before he began walking out of the door,
only returning when I'm dreaming at night.
He always returned smelling of expensive perfume,
I never spent the money on myself.
He forgets sometimes, I forgive him of that,
But he neglects to see for eternity it seems that
There's a leak in thee roof,
An unsightly, irritating, dripping leak in the roof.
He said he'd fix it before...
Copyright © Jennifer Macarthur | Year Posted 2017
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