My House By Joan Gullett

            Ben Seidelman Flickr


​My House


My house is cluttered. By ‘my house,’ I mean my mind.
I’ve been told to treat my body as a temple.
Mine is more like an abandoned synagogue. The anatomy was once designed to be exemplary. 
Now, holding phantoms of old hymns and spirits being lifted. 
My organs disguised as instruments. My heart being the drum, they beat on it to create music. 
My fading past tangled in the cobwebs in hidden corners.
I am an abandoned pawn shop, people have flooded in and out, leaving things behind to trade. 
All antiques, pieces of him, her, their collectible insecurities. 
Ones they don’t see beauty in,
ones others will,
ones that won’t matter when the shop closes.
I am the forgotten fossil in your tomb of memories.
When my bones turn to dust, when I become something other than what you made me.
Maybe then you, we, will remember who I am
and that I still exist.

​

Joan Gullett, 17, got her inspiration from many “Button Poetry” poets, and Alexa Ritzell (online) because of the way people perfectly described emotions both gently and powerfully. When she was 13, she became unsure on how to express herself verbally, that's when she picked up a pen, and opened a journal.

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