If you must object,

do it loudly.

Do not let your voice

become another object,

set aside, forgotten,

collecting dust.

a poem

is like a rock

the way it

demos

Newton's Law

see how

it

falls

and bruises

the apple

of mine

02.18.2025

object challenge @Last

She was an object

She was his

To keep

To mistreat

Once he flew into

a jealous rage

Pinned her against the wall

And stuck his hand

Between her legs

Because he wanted

To “check”

If she had been

Unfaithful

While she was at work

Because he could tell

He would yell

In her face

“Whore”

And she believed

This was normal

Normal boyfriend behavior

And he only acted that way

Because he loved her

Loved her so much

And technically, it was her fault

For making him jealous

For making him act out

But she was only an object

That didn't know

Any better

I will not give in to convention

I will deny your good intention

I will not live in your delusion

I will cause you endless confusion

I will not give in and pretend to be

I will be different than you want to see

I will not live in your perfect existence

I will struggle but don't need your assistance

More objectivity.

Less subjectivity.

More creativity.

Less reactivity.

More inclusivity.

Less exclusivity.

The world needs more,

not less.

object

object, as in not subject

not the subject but the object

objection, as in what lawyers say

being a lawyer is not my objective but

lawyers are the objects of many a conversation I have nowadays

objectively I’m not sure where I’m going

What it is, an objective? Goal, purpose,

Bedrock of the soil that is intention.

Objects in motion will stay in motion

Subjects in poetry will stay in motion, continuing to write words

Regardless of meaning, of an objective, of objects to write poems about.

Simply a subject subjecting other subjects to his subjectivity

Subject no longer feels like a word with meaning

If any ever existed to start with

Start spark scarp scrape scape escape

Object has escaped containment, escaped prompt territory,

headed towards complete absence of sense

I used to belong to someone.

I came in a pair.

I helped them through the weather.

I helped them walk down stairs.

Sometimes I come with strings.

Sometimes I come with pumps.

I look great with a pair of jeans.

I helped my person jump.

But now Im laying lonely

Without my better half .

Soon to be scooped up by a truck

To be put into the trash!

What am I?

I am a dirty sneaker laying on the curb.

How many stories need retelling

for this object to achieve sentimental value?

Does importance have an expiration date

that’s reached when no one’s left to gather in celebration?

How many years must elapse

before this object becomes a family heirloom?

Does perpetuating an affiliation to the past

become burdensome to those living in the present?

How many memories are required

to turn this mundane object into a cherished keepsake?

Does nostalgia become obsolete

after multiple generations are gone?

Is my legacy inevitably doomed

to suffer the same fate as this object?