Sunday, April 1, marked the start of National Poetry Month, an annual celebration the Academy of American Poets first introduced in 1996, according to poets.org. To commemorate National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world, the King Street Chronicle will publish one poem each school day throughout April.
Cotton Hearts
Laura Ferrucci ’19
I used to hear them breathing.
Their shiny black eyes would blink at me,
cry with me,
understand my childish mumbling,
and listen with reassuring sewn smiles
as I rambled for hours on end
sprawled on the floor,
holding them above me.
Their shiny black eyes would blink at me,
cry with me,
understand my childish mumbling,
and listen with reassuring sewn smiles
as I rambled for hours on end
sprawled on the floor,
holding them above me.
Even though they never moved,
I felt their heartbeats pulsing in unison,
warm glowing light radiating from their souls.
I was loved – and safe.
Their kind thoughts like blue and yellow
ribbons in a whirlwind around me,
protecting me from the world.
I felt their heartbeats pulsing in unison,
warm glowing light radiating from their souls.
I was loved – and safe.
Their kind thoughts like blue and yellow
ribbons in a whirlwind around me,
protecting me from the world.
I remember being so angry when
I was told they weren’t alive.
Soft purple dreams
sewn into me
torn from my heart.
I was told they weren’t alive.
Soft purple dreams
sewn into me
torn from my heart.
I heard stitches pop,
seams broken beyond repair.
My soul was bleeding
but deep down
I had already known.
seams broken beyond repair.
My soul was bleeding
but deep down
I had already known.
Now I can’t even hear them crying
when I forget their names.
I stare with stinging red eyes
into their faces for hours on end,
but I don’t remember.
I will never remember.
when I forget their names.
I stare with stinging red eyes
into their faces for hours on end,
but I don’t remember.
I will never remember.
I will never hear the comforting steady rhythm
of their heartbeats again.
Now they are only stuffed spirits
of their heartbeats again.
Now they are only stuffed spirits
and cotton hearts.
– Mae Harkins, Staff Writer
Featured Image by Mae Harkins ’20