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    All Shards & Paste
    All Shards & Paste
    All Shards & Paste
    Ebook157 pages40 minutes

    All Shards & Paste

    By Joey Polisena

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    About this ebook

    A poet doesn't just love you for a moment. She lets you puncture her skin with the way you feel, lets it heal, and then rubs it now and then to feel you again. This debut collection of poetry and hand-drawn artwork by a Cleveland, Ohio artist tells stories of traumas, breaking cycles, sexy romances, and the bond between poet and reader.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScorched Feathers
    Release dateOct 17, 2019
    ISBN9798989477210
    All Shards & Paste
    Author

    Joey Polisena

    Joey sniffs books, magazines, and other paper things (there is brain-tickle in the fibers and ink). Of all the words pressed to her skin, her favorites are: Mom, Poet, and Friend. This former journalist embraced opportunities and bloomed into an IT instructional designer, guiding colleagues to new technologies. Joey self-published her first poetry book, "All Shards & Paste," in 2019, and has since published pieces in Blood & Bourbon, Ohio Bards Anthology, New Generation Beats 2023 Anthology, and Common Threads. 

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      Book preview

      All Shards & Paste - Joey Polisena

      20-Something

      There is a place in which we belong:

      Valleys race against the echoes

      of children laughing their songs.

      Ink flows from pens without thought,

      or a rhythm or rhyme

      or the passing of time…Oops!

      There are no boundaries in this chaos,

      no rules to keep these soldiers in line;

      just a pen writing electro-pulses

      sent from my mind

      through these eyes

      and into these blue-tipped fingers

      left over from the twentieth century.

      But, the longer I watch this red ink

      under my control, from my vein,

      the more milliseconds slink by,

      the more I need to rhyme and say:

      It’s all I’ve ever had in this world!

      A book full of implied secrets,

      the sand on the beaches,

      a story of sneetches,

      out of reaches,

      speechless.

      I’m crawling up from this pen

      that replies to me now and then

      with some cute giggle of times that are past…

      All these words, perhaps my last.

      Getting older, but left here floating

      at the tip of the water,

      full of hate and self-loathing

      because I’m already on the 36th line,

      but I can’t stop the rhyme.

      That fat cAT SAT UNTIL I BEAT HIM

      WITH THE THICK END OF A STICK

      AND WATCHED HIM BLEED;

      HE IS DEAD.

      Breath…

      That’s just a lie I’ve told;

      I fed and petted him instead.

      My place is not here

      in reality’s dress,

      nor this molded body,

      nor the heart in my chest.

      So why does it hurt so much now

      of all those things then,

      of this place, how?

      It is my final rebellion

      and my last chance to take out the format

      that this society insists I follow.

      To forget about the meter of words

      and to just,

      for once,

      write what’s on my mind;

      stop breaking these lines

      in prescribed places. To change

      colors if I wish;

      about order words of forgetting the…

      to find my place

      somewhere in all this.

      I know I have so far left to go

      to find a place where I belong.

      It never seems to be the place we live;

      I realize all the lines

      as I seek myself to find

      those fat cats cradled

      in little girls’ arms.

      Silence this hurt, this rage;

      fall quiet, you tears,

      go easy, breath;

      Just step.

      The Answer Is

      I’m experiencing a sadness I’ve never felt before.

      It’s a distance that I can’t gap if I try.

      I wonder why.

      I dance around bushes like a 5-year-old,

      like the lies I’ve told;

      Like a chant in the schoolyard,

      the radio buzzes on and on,

      remembering times so long gone,

      dreams that have flown.

      My child has outgrown my body.

      The answer is: I need a way out of it.

      The skin needs peeled away,

      the bone crushed to pieces,

      veins dried to dust.

      A silhouette, in the night, emerges:

      my soul, my me–the real me–

      invisible to anyone who ever mattered.

      Gone.

      All words shattered

      against red brick walls,

      paintings of longing, of dreams.

      My screams unheard,

      no lips to form words;

      the pen has run dry, no ink;

      what I think is numbed:

      no voice, no performance, no applause.

      The answer is: I need out of this.

      So I pick up my pen

      and escape like smoke

      from heavy steel cuffs,

      a

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