EpigraMarch is a (yearly?) poetry challenge à la Inktober, started by me to replace what poet Savannah Brown used to call Escapril. It consisted of a list of prompts, one for each day in March, for which a poem will have to be written. Prompts are revealed one at a time on the day on which they are due. Post your submissions anywhere under the epigramarch tag to encourage participation and message me at telomagnetics@protonmail.com if you want a link to your submissions on this site. The following pieces were submitted by one such participant and do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of ouroboros.cafe.
Do not look at me as I am now. Spare me a moment That I may twist my emotions Into neatly bottled literary agony That you should read And say to me, "You are understood." For, that's what I seek. An understanding without vulnerability. For my insecurity and confusion Not to be charmlessly laid bare When they can be repackaged into Something nicer. Of course I fear judgment. Disagreement without comfort. I know feelings cannot be trusted, And neither can my own flawed perspective, Yet, see how little I've evolved And still dare to build my fort On questionable foundation. Though I am harsh, My self ridicule is comfortable. I know this voice like a soul mate. Somehow, when it spews disdain, I can accept it like I'd received anesthesia. Let someone else be my judge, And the tragedy again commences. I report my perceptions with certainty, The case against me begins, I argue in my defense, Usually through carelessness Twist the prosecution's argument, Then have all my ills exposed In front of the audience and jury When i could have saved face And avoided the whole ordeal If I'd listened better at the start. For one so concerned with control, It regularly appears I have none. Not enough agency of the self To recognize poisonous sentiments And prevent their publication. Far too little to force myself present And hear each word as they are Without importing patterns of my own design. I trust my own understandings out of foolishness. What causes those who know my shortcomings To indulge my claim to be an expert in my own experiences?
If the wind blew hard enough, I would bend. If you explode with rage or hurt, I would crumble. Viewing myself clinically, I was convinced this would ensure my survival Somewhere in my distant past that Still holds me prisoner even in shadowy memory. Passivity meant the terrors would pass, and I could Resume searching for solace in a hostile home. Silent compliance and restricted resistance have made me Liked by those I do not feel the same in kind. Positive perceptions grow the more Flexible to changing whims I prove to be. And, what have I left? What challenge will I not back down from? The trouble with imaginary villains is that they Do not resemble the flesh and blood ones. Imagination has me valiantly standing tall in the face of Darkened figures with more strength and power, But I relish the difficulty because I know that my cause is just. I can draw ammunition from righteousness and Vanquish the easily conceptualized evil. Reality has me Fearing for frivolities like Comfort and consistency and so Giving in after flawed consideration. What cause sparks rebellion in me that Extends beyond words?
Count the ridges in the ceiling, Then scrutinize the pictures in the Dancing shadows on the wall. Shift positions before my body aches again. Wonder at the people sitting nearby, and Invent the lives they lead. Why does that chair squeak. Eyes fall to a dimmed light. It's nearly burned out. Someone should replace it.
Sure, I'll dance with you. Let's go for a song And try to extract enjoyment from What may be mere passing fancy. If you're lucky, I may return the interest. But, tread cautiously For walls are built with purpose. I do my best to fill gaps And perform regular reinforcement. From atop, I watch Little you who wants in. With honeyed words You seek admittance. And, what then? When you find my interior fortress built of sand, When you spot my soldiers armed with sticks, Will you turn coat and court wolves? Seize upon my hidden fragility? I cannot trust promises. The lies of loved ones mortar my bricks. To take a chance Is to invite for strife. Content yourself with arm's length love For, I'm not willing to play this game to the end.
I've been here before. Yes, there are my steps from last time And the time before that. Eventually, you'd think I'd find my way. Surely this path doesn't wind enough To justify such a haze I proceed in. Yet, memory is fickle. I drop my breadcrumbs for a time, Slowly realize I'm forgetting the motion, And finally leave the trail unmarked behind me. When forward is my only directive, Of course I blindly retrace my mistakes.
I chose my mask like I select my shirt. A face and countenance for every occasion. Who should I be to you? Authentic is a difficult concept. No disguise is truly pretend. They are but dials I adjust. Presets to fall into when the scenes change. Wasn't it said that life is a play and we are all players? Take my character's lines as merely Following the script provided, But please do not attribute the composition to me. If this makes you chafe, Consider if you want to know me, truly. To understand each other is What we want to want, When reality reveals that the tallest nail Gets hammered into submission. I know, though. Villains and heroes and victims alike must make sense. Survival means knowing which to be And to reinforce this ever present barrier Between me and you.
I do not want to know the man of my dreams. He ought remain a fiction, A character whom I can desire from a distance. What I seek in him serves limited function. To endure such traits in mundane existence would be Taxing if not destructive. Fantasy is allowed to be uncomfortable and dangerous. In make believe, you are permitted to call the scene closed When the darkness morphs dreams to nightmares. Tangling strings easily sever And do not create collateral damage. The yearning may never subside, But I can content myself with the safety of Exhilarating pretend adventures.
I lay downtrodden at your gate. With only trust to carry me, I seek a sign, Some signal that you are here Just barely out of reach. Longing for your embrace, I wait on the promise this pain is not without end, And someday I will understand. From my limited scope, Exhaustion grows. Please know it is not doubt but a Miasma of gloom that's taking hold. I want to believe the meek shall inherit, But that gives little comfort when the meek Tremble under the boot of tyranny.