Mackenzie Writes

 Slam Poem Artwork is unknown Poet - Kenzie

darkness consumes my sight only a sliver of light shines through the crack of a door that glides like a boat on the ocean. flesh vibrating, shivering of fear, maybe of cold mostly. the air blankets my skin  wraps around me as i curl my knees to my chest, like a sea dragon silently waiting and clothes like seaweed dangling around me. footsteps coming coming down the hall. heavy breathing like a sharks theme song he's hunting for me. I hold my breath as silent as a fish floating in space and time begging for the storm to pass. waiting to be found waiting  waiting for the shark to leave. waiting for the shark to pass. hoping the shark does not smell my sweet.. sweet peaches hang from the tree outside,  I can see them through the crack and a shadow closes that sliver of light. my head peers up. the sharks haunting eye peers through  where my sliver of hope used to shine.

A handsome man and genius writer, John Osborne, was born Dec. 12, 1929 and died Dec. 24, 1994. He was born and raised in Surrey. He was an English playwright, actor, and screenwriter who wrote with themes based on political and social norms, including perceptions of spirituality. I enjoy John Osborne's work because we share a similar sense of dark humor and wit, as well as "mommy issues." I wish I could write as wittily as he has. Someone once described his plays as  “combined unsparing truthfulness with devastating wi t.” (Wikipedia) At age 18 John Osborne began acting in numerous plays, which is where he fell in love with playwriting. He co-wrote his first play, The Devil Inside Me , with his lover/wife Stella. Osborne described this play as a ‘melodrama about a poetic Welsh loon’ who murders a girl when he  realizes  that she is trying to frame him for sexual assault.' ( bl.uk ) Osborne has been married 5 times and is believed to be bisexual. John...

9/15/2018 I am sitting in this bathroom, lying on the floor too weak to get up, crying like before the floor I cleaned just two weeks ago, the floor you can’t ignore. I remember sitting in this same bathroom, lying just like this on the floor I was only fifteen. And too weak to get up, not like now but, crying more forlorn on the floor, too weak to go. The floor I then couldn't ignore. For this floor had so much gore. This same pain wept from inside, on the floor I once solemnly swore  never to let myself get so mourned.  You leave me with so much scorn  and I try not to rush so much to the morgue;  one day I may meet my fate in show but, today I lay here on the bathroom floor. Today, today I feel torn, crying and weeping just like before but, in terror and remembering not to be forlorn I lay here on the bathroom floor, The same exact floor  except now I am grown. I cleaned it just two weeks ago, this...