Poetry from Madison Tompkins

Image via pixabay


It’s all slow motion until it’s not,
until you can’t even remember it happening,
until it didn’t happen at all.

It’s like the comb sorting through your hair
knowing it will be tangled again.
It’s like the van door being slammed on your thumb,
bruising your nail until it falls off.
…………I am the one who closed the door
…………but I refuse to hear you shout in my ear.

You’re shouting into an empty jar meant to be thrown
…………through a town hall window
…………with a cursive note: Break Me
……………………so they can hear what you have to say.

But they won’t break it right off.
Things like this
…………don’t come around too often
and they’ll want to enjoy the moment.

They’ll save it for a new ship,
one yet to set sail.
When they smash it
your voice will be heard
politely saying your first and last name,
then it will trail off
because time has made the sound stale.


Madison Tompkins works and writes in Kennesaw, Georgia. He attends Kennesaw State University and works with students at a local church.


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