Victoria Mitchell

Regeneration

In the eye of the hurricane 

The blustery winds grew stronger
Rain flooded my thoughts
Trash scattered over the concrete
And on the walls of my skull.

It had been teeming with rain
From dawn to dusk
Debris fallen in the way
Clouding my judgement

The climax of the storm
Strong wind hissing
Branches crashing down 
Thinking all hope was lost 

But as the sun peered over the horizon
The clouds started to fade 
the rain washed away 
And out came a rainbow

Not Your Average Winter 

The snow fell to the ground
While ice blacker than charcoal flooded the roads.
A strong wind picked up
Tearing down anything in its path 
Making it harder to stand on my feet

the sun tried to peak out 
shadowed by dark clouds.
The type of cold that makes me beg for spring
The wind howled as the flakes of snow 
turned into hail
Adding more weight on my back--

making it harder to pull through.
But as the ice started to melt
and the sun overcame its fears 
The flurries went back into hiding.
Though It may have been a quick shower
There's always a chance for another storm.

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I am your captive

They tell me it’s spring time,
I can feel the rose petals
Resting in the palms of my hands.
The thorns break through my skin,
Ripping it up. 
The innocence in its scent
That masks my thoughts.
The passionate red that tints the rose
Reflecting off of my corneas. 
Though I can't see it
I know its there,
But I can't see it.
The red rose has my eyes held captive,
swollen shut.
From the white pollen that breaks boundaries. 
Though someone created this thing called Claratin 
That allows me to smell
Touch,
And see the rose
Without shedding a tear. 

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Mr. Kitty
I found Mr Kitty patrolling the woods last week,
Feasting his eyes on a vulnerable mouse,
Keeping to itself.
There were plenty of other mice,
But he was adamant on getting that one.
He played nicely,
He befriended mousey,
Gained the trust of mousey.
Then he ripped Mousey’s flesh out of her carcass.  
Tore mousey to pieces,
Mousey’s heart rested next to my bearpaw boots. 
Bad Mr Kitty. 
That night I ran home to daddy,
Told him all about him, 
And what he did to Mousey. 
Daddy tucked me into bed,
Told me to get used to it 
Because all kitties try to hurt others like Mousey.
So when I woke up the next day,
I went to check if she was still there,
And next to Mousey’s shredded heart,
Was Mr Kitty.
With a hole in his head. 
And one less bullet in daddy's gun.

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Mr. Kitty
I found Mr Kitty patrolling the woods last week,
Feasting his eyes on a vulnerable mouse,
Keeping to itself.
There were plenty of other mice,
But he was adamant on getting that one.
He played nicely,
He befriended mousey,
Gained the trust of mousey.
Then he ripped Mousey’s flesh out of her carcass.  
Tore mousey to pieces,
Mousey’s heart rested next to my bearpaw boots. 
Bad Mr Kitty. 
That night I ran home to daddy,
Told him all about him, 
And what he did to Mousey. 
Daddy tucked me into bed,
Told me to get used to it 
Because all kitties try to hurt others like Mousey.
So when I woke up the next day,
I went to check if she was still there,
And next to Mousey’s shredded heart,
Was Mr Kitty.
With a hole in his head. 
And one less bullet in daddy's gun.

Bruises 

She leaps across the wooden stage,
the lace skirt reaching at each end.
bright spotlights block out the bruises 
as her feet keep dancing.
Unable to wipe the memory away
forgetting the Arabesque,
that comes after the switch leap.
she forgets her turns
but remembers her life,
once she walks off the platform.
that holds her up-
keeping her stable.
she goes for the Plié,
which she's perfected time after time.
she slips,
and the curtain closes.

In an Open Field

A single Chrysanthemum stands in an open field,
Framed with trees,
Surrounded by tall grass- 
Which hasn’t been trimmed 
Towering over the flower. 
Honey bees use it for pollen, 
Butterflies use it to rest on,
Breaking its stem
Without knowing. 
It stands proudly 
In a field with no chrysanthemums 
All alone,
Surrounded by wildflowers 
That are foreign to it
In reality, 
The chrysanthemum is unknown.
But there behind the oak trees,
And the lofty sunflowers 
Grows another Chrysanthemum
Needing to be nurtured
And it is no longer alone.

In an Open Field

A single Chrysanthemum stands in an open field,
Framed with trees,
Surrounded by tall grass- 
Which hasn’t been trimmed 
Towering over the flower. 
Honey bees use it for pollen, 
Butterflies use it to rest on,
Breaking its stem
Without knowing. 
It stands proudly 
In a field with no chrysanthemums 
All alone,
Surrounded by wildflowers 
That are foreign to it
In reality, 
The chrysanthemum is unknown.
But there behind the oak trees,
And the lofty sunflowers 
Grows another Chrysanthemum
Needing to be nurtured
And it is no longer alone.