New batch of poems Well...I'm not sure if any of you know, but I'm a creative writing major. Now and then, I like to put my stuff on display, and get feedback. If you're so inclined, feel free to tell me which poems you like or dislike. You can give reasons if you want, or not if you prefer. Either way, here ya go. Karmaâ€™s Debtor I went back to the church last year for a miracle. Pomegranate dust fell on empty afternoon pews where I knelt for the first time since eighth grade. Sister Matthew Marie thought I stopped going because God couldnâ€™t stop cancer, and because I had to tell Kelly Stokes why I was crying during Art class. The smell of those pine-oil finished pews helped me remember when life was anything but tragic, and faith existed like game-winning homeruns or Santa Claus. I only remembered a few lines from The Lordâ€™s Prayer, but I mustâ€™ve repeated those words for half an hour, and squinted harder every timeâ€”but nothing happened. I stopped going to church because I grew up, and only went back because I wanted to be twelve again. I prayed for a miracle, but no matter how hard I squinted, I couldnâ€™t make Jesus bleed. Southern Goodbyes Mom once told me she couldnâ€™t go to my basketball games because she didnâ€™t want to cut herself on those metal chairs and bleed sick blood where eight-year-olds played. She cut herself, once, on the edge of the dishwasher, and cried for two hours while she sponged down the floor, yelling at me to keep away from her and the metal things. My sister was more mature than me, and could manage a smile when my mother spent all night in the bathroom, trying on her new wig and saying, â€œhowâ€™s your bald mother look now?â€ And my sister is the one, who wonâ€™t let me forget that pain, making sure she says cancer at every family get-togetherâ€” making me remember that my mother will die a painful death. Mom says she only wants one thing in lifeâ€”a big porch, somewhere she can embrace the mystery of death in peace, and forget family get-togethers with a glass of lemonade. The Single Life Ben said I should think more with my balls, and less with my brain. I am a single stitch on a patch of Velcro. All around me, others stick. Iâ€™m left solitary and I canâ€™t move because Iâ€™m trapped within them. Everywhere is a lonely place when no one understands you more than a fortune cookie. The Autumn of my Desires This aged twig, my grandfatherâ€™s elbow, mummifies into a granite fossil. New life perches at the end, a half-blossom, some shell-splitting alien. Scarlet tentacles squirm outward, a fetal bud still covered in birth. Arms and legs protruding in orchestrated anarchy, a poor girlâ€™s velvet prom dressâ€”unattractive, yet not. You are the pipe I smoked watching South Park in Nickâ€™s pocket lint apartment, sinking into bottomless pillows and wanting to suffocate on their satin, new car smell. You are epic tales I narrated under covers, sunlight dripping through thousand-count sheetsâ€”wanting every portion of my body to be saturated by worryless, dryer sheet cotton. I could breathe in your delicate fragrance, bury myself in your bud, and be stoned on your aromatic nostalgiaâ€”flashbulb memories that replay like a dirty Film-Noire finale You are pitch-black turned translucentâ€”the way the world becomes simplistic when finally comfortable. You are every screaming want and desire left in my apathetic mind. Yet this excitement, this novelty of sense will wear off. And you too will die.