Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

HURT Poem: White Dress, by Elizabeth Mazza

Mommy and Daddy dressed me up in a white dress.
They’re holding me in front of all of their church friends.
They hand me to the pastor.
He puts something on my forehead and says what I know is a prayer.
A promise to be brought up under the Lord with all his protection.
People cheer.
I smile brightly.
My white dress catching the glimmering stained glass of the church.

I have picked out a white dress to wear today.
Mom and Dad wanted to talk to me.
They sit me down at the table.
Dad hands me a tiny pink box.
There’s a pretty ring inside.
He tells me it’s a promise to God.
To wait.
That there’s a piece of myself that I should only give to my husband.
I put it on my finger, it matches my white dress so beautifully.

I wore a white dress to church today.
I sit in the service, holding a boy’s hand.
He’s replaced the ring I had, with one of his own.
I know what will happen after church.
We’ll go get ice cream as we so often did.
I hold his hand in the car.
But this isn’t the ice cream shop.
This is an apartment.
Not his.

Someone else’s.
He brings me into a room.
He pushes me down to the floor.
I don’t want to do this.
I made a promise to God.
I want to keep it.
But I’m not strong enough.
I kneel there, fighting as much as I can, but it’s no use.
He finally finishes.
I go to the bathroom.
Suddenly my white dress isn’t so white.

I haven’t looked at that dress in years.
That damn white dress.
I hid it, stuffed it away in an old box.
I refuse to look at it.
Refuse to remind myself of the choice that was stolen from me.
That dress was supposed to mean something.
I even tried to wear it again after the incidents.

Only once.
I got looks from men.
Told I was “so beautiful.”
Until it was clear that they didn’t really care about the dress.
Only about how good it would feel to take it off of me.
I despise that damn dress.

Mom is zipping me into a white dress.
One I don’t deserve to wear.
It’s the nicest dress I’ll ever own.
“A one of a kind” they said at the store we got it from.
The man this dress is for, he gave it to me.
My old one was stained.
Tarnished by another man’s decisions.
But he gave me a new one.
He gave me a new life, a safe life.
I take one last look at myself.
And show the man I love, the dress he made.

I’m standing in a store, holding a tiny white dress.
A dress that my baby girl will soon wear.
I will hold her in front of the church, and pray for God’s protection over her.
Protection from men like the one I knew.
The one her father healed me from.
She will never know what it is to feel unwelcome in your own skin.
She will never try to hide her life away.
And I will make sure.
That no man ever tarnishes her pure, white, dress.

POETRY Reading: Yep, I’m Emetophobic, by Za’Qerrah

Performed by Val Cole

—–
POEM:

Ugh, I don’t know. Maybe the reason I’m scared of throwing up is the same reason I don’t say
what’s really on my mind, you know? You have an idea of what’s coming out, but you’re still not
ready for what it is. Maybe, it’s because I would be sharing an ugly part of myself, in a way at
least… Better yet, maybe it’s because when I start, I won’t be able to stop, right? I won’t be able to catch my breath and even if I feel somewhat relief, I’m also left feeling empty and shaken.

Shaken by what came out or shaken by the fact that I actually let it and now I’m seen in a
different light… But, yep. I’m emetophobic. That’s why I’m afraid of getting drunk, or pregnant,
or both. If I’m dumb enough to, that is. But anyways, I fear for my life when I get nauseous.
When I see others even gag, I move to evacuate…Speaking of which, I think I had a bit of a
breakthrough, huh? I should, uh…I should probably, you know… Same time next week?

POETRY Reading: Monster in the Closet, by Grant Carriker

Performed by Val Cole

—–
POEM:

There’s a monster in the closet,
he’s been there seven years.
He sits there in the darkness
feeding on his fears.

He’s never coming out.
He’s never seen the sun.
He tries to draw me in
so he’s not the only one.

I lay in bed at night.
I think I feel his breath,
his cool and smelly sigh
that makes me think of death.

I turn over at the smell,
I’m frightened to my core,
but there is nothing there,
just the silent closet door.

So I turn back over
and try to go to sleep,
thinking all is fine because
I do not hear a peep.

“Timmy, Timmy, Timmy,”
whispers across the room.
My heart speeds up so quick
I think it will go boom.

“You wanna come into the closet
when everything is black?
I promise if you do,
you never will look back.

I’ll hold you tight and keep you safe
with my heavy, hairy paws
and if you want, I’ll sing you something
through my jolly, giant jaws”

The monster is so lonely,
that much is very clear.
So I say, “Mr. Monster
why don’t you come out here?”

I do not feel his breath,
I do not hear his voice.
The monster had to ponder
this intimidating choice.

“I’ve never been outside
these quiet, closet doors.
I’ve never seen a face
that isn’t mine or yours.

What if the world is spooky,
spookier than me?
It’s all that I can think about
since you were only three.”

“Well now, Mr. Monster,
that’s no way to be.

There’s a world outside of there
that’s beautiful and pretty.
There’s a mountain and a forest
and an ocean and a city!

I sit up in my bed now
and say with lots of pride,
“You’ll never know what’s out of there
unless you step outside.”

From the glimmer of the moon
that shined through on the door,
I see the monster’s tentacle
step out on the floor.

He peeked his head outside.
The monster was not scary,
albeit he was big and tall
and very, very hairy.

But I saw a bit of nervousness
that twinkled in his eyes.
They looked like they were waiting
for a terrible surprise,
something from a corner
of my bedroom to arise.

My room is very safe,
so after all is scanned,
I head over to my closet
and I hold out my hand.

He puts his paw in mine.
I tell him he is fine.
He really isn’t fearsome,
in fact he is divine.

I walk across the carpet
to go outside my room.
He looks back at the closet
where he sat with all his gloom.

We’re walking through the house
and now we’re at the door.
He asks me what is out there,
so I tell him what’s in store.

“There tons of stuff out there,
some is good, some is bad.
At least that’s what I’m told
by my mommy and my dad.”

His eyes are filled with wonder
and a little bit of dread,
but I open up the door
and I kiss him on his head.

“Have a fun adventure!
Please come back again
and tell me what you see.
I’ll think of you till then.”

He steps down from the porch,
he’s made it to the walk.
He’s looking at a daisy
I drew there with some chalk.

He lifts his head up,
sniffs around,
sighs out, and I swear,
the monster is amazed
at the coolness of the air.

I wave goodbye
and watch him slither
gaily toward the street.
He smiles at the moon
and it’s really kinda sweet.

He disappeared into the black.
I knew he wasn’t coming back
because he felt release.
I smile when I think of him.
The world is often very grim,
and still he found some peace.

I lay in my room
without a peep,
close my eyes,
and fall asleep.

ROMANCE Poem: Love, War, and Leftover Coffee, by Chloe Rodriguez

I miss how you’d fall asleep
to World War Two documentaries,
like you were secretly training
for some imaginary war.
And I’d complain, of course,
because how dare you be so
charmingly predictable—
but honestly,
I think I was just jealous
of the way history could hold you
when I couldn’t.
Now it’s me,
drinking a whole pot of coffee
because I can’t stand the silence
of one cup.
It’s too much, too big—
too much like the way I loved you,
like I thought I needed to pour
myself into someone else
to feel real.
But no one told me
that the coffee gets cold
before you even notice.

I don’t miss the lies—
or the emotional Black Friday sales,
where I had to beg for a spot
on your list of priorities,
fighting for a bargain love
that never quite fit.
I don’t miss being second choice,
or, let’s be honest, third,
but I miss the way you’d hold me
like I was the last one left in the store
and you were already planning
your next big purchase.

But I’m not at war anymore,
not with you, not with myself
no more pretending this will all mean something,
no more fighting ghosts
we never had a chance to outrun.
We used to tear ourselves apart,
thinking it would make a difference,
thinking the mess would settle into something worth saving.
But it didn’t.

And sure,
there are days I think about the wars we waged
how we used to fight over everything,
and nothing—
how we swore we could change the world
but only ever tore down our own.

We threw ourselves into it
like soldiers into a battle they didn’t choose,
thinking maybe the casualties would somehow be worth it.
I don’t miss the chaos, but I remember it
the way we clung to each other like history’s worst chapters,

the way we swore we’d never let go,
even as we slipped through the cracks,
dying on the battlefield of us.
There was something about that intensity
that felt like we were living
like we were still writing the pages of our own story.
But today?

I don’t need the battle anymore.
I don’t need the victories we never claimed.
I’m done with the war we built in silence,
with the endless retelling of our own destruction.
I’ve learned to let the instant rations of it fade,
to let them become part of the history dirt that
doesn’t matter anymore.
These are the things we carry—
the wars we choose,
the ones we don’t,
the ghosts that shape us,
and the silences that fill the spaces where love used to be.

I hope history envelops you,
lets you rest among the stories
we’ll never finish telling,
and find peace in the rubble we left behind.
You’re somewhere in history,
fighting battles that never even happened,
while I’m here, holding a cold cup of coffee
and a second-choice life
I don’t know how to walk away from.
Because we carry everything,
whether we want to or not,
and maybe that’s all we’re ever meant to do.

ROMANCE Poem: A Married Man, by Anna Skarupa

They say marriage is a prison,
And if that’s the case,
Lock me up officer,
I’m guilty as hell.

They say marriage ties you down.
I’ll buy the rope.
Because prison bars
Are just my wife’s arms.

My happiness chained to her smile,
Your honor, give me the life sentence,
As long as she’s my warden,
I’ll behave.

In this strange prison we call marriage
I never felt freer.

GRIEF Poem: left with only words, by Cristina Leavitt

i ate the words-
words that started it all
spoken between us
i am always so messy
with my mouth
in all the wrong ways
tongue full of razor blades
my mouth tasted like old pennies
i am so messy with your heart
using it as i use a knife in the kitchen
unable to slice vegetables without cutting my fingers
i tried to carry it
place it inside of my rib cage
for safe keeping
i dropped your heart
it broke like teeth
chipping on sticky caramel candy
i never felt you take my heart out
i never saw you break it in front of me
while hiding yours
razor blades are still stuck inside of me
i am still chewing the words in my throat
swallowing
letting them fall
into my empty rib cage
where nothing thrives anymore