High School Writing Contest

—

you wrote a story, it won a contest.

you had a plan that worked.

you’d take a mother,

sprinkle her with cancer,

and have her die in front of

her daughter.

 

I asked you what the point was.

why write it? what was the inspiration?

you said you figured the saddest story

would win the contest.

you were right,

and it shouldn’t have

made me so angry.

 

but, she suffered for no reason.

for your stupid fucking win.

while you sat there like a coward,

your paper and your pen.

you murdered a sick mother,

probably did it with a grin.

orphaned her poor baby,

i’ll win

i’ll win

i’ll win.

i know it’s all made up,

but they live inside the lines.

an uninspired story,

your fucking Frankenstein.

 

so take that woman’s cancer,

walk the orphan’s shoes.

write with true perspective,

write with purpose too.

 

write it through your stomach,

fever sweats of ink.

have your readers live it,

regret a single blink.

 

write with true perspective

write with true perspective

fuck a writing contest

—

“High School Writing Contest”

©Steven Cuenca

 

 

 

Haiku: XIX

—

golden girl floating

in a pool of candied sweat

let’s drown, fill my lungs

—

©Steven Cuenca

masturbation seat

—

the suicidal similarities of days passing by.

my favorite words to vomit are,

“today went fast.”

 

but the year went fast,

and it scares me to think of how much

time was wasted dreaming of better days

and how to masturbate to them.

 

my better days are scarce.

ideally they’re spent

with dead people who don’t love me

and hurt me just right.

sociopath or asshole.

i’m open to the possibility of being both,

in which case it’s over for me.

 

i’ve had a fixation on ending it all.

an uninspired, faux-romantic plan to move far away

and die in a fit of passion.

far enough not to cause a fuss,

slow enough to watch the entirety of my life

flash before my eyes

and squeeze in one last full release.

—

“masturbation seat”

©Steven Cuenca