Writing Prompt

POEM STARTER

‘Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd'

Continue this poem.

Writings

Green Thumb

It started out small; just some roses here, hydrangeas there. The flowers peppered the garden like freckles. The freshly packed snow glistened in the sun.

“How are those plants still alive?” My brother asked.

“I have no idea,” I complained. “Those flowers have been there since May. They’re pretty, sure, but they won’t stop growing, no matter how much I prune them,” I lamented.

“I don’t understand how you can complain about that!” My brother laughed. “You must have one heck of a green thumb.” That’s what the neighbors always said. It wasn’t me though. I planted those flowers in the late spring for my end of semester project.

Now they won’t die.

The fence was barely visible, entangled with wisteria, and the ground was now covered in daisies and dandelions. I didn’t plant those. My father attempted to rid the yard of the plants in all manner of ways. He sprayed the yard with tons of weed killer. He mowed the lawn dozens of times in the early morning. He spent an entire weekend uprooting every last one of them by hand. They kept growing.

By June of next year, the house was overrun. Exotic plants crawled up the red brick walls and snaked up the roof. The driveway was stained with vines and leaves. By now we had made peace with the ever growing flora. The neighborhood kids knew us as the flower house. At least they’re pretty.

The flowers finally cracked through the bricks. They infested our house like ants, uprooting our houses foundation.

“Clarissa! You need to get these gosh darn plants out of my house!”

“I didn’t grow them!” I rebuttaled.

The plants seeped through the cracks of the house like a parasite. They wrapped themselves around windows and above photo frames. They wormed their way throughout the house until they forced us out.

I came back to the house one day, years after we’d moved. The green plants blossomed with colors of every sort. The dilapidated building stood out against the bright red bricks and stark white roooftops of the rest of the street. The house was still overrun with flowers. It belonged to nature now.

“Wonderful work of art, huh?” While I was reminiscing, a stranger had made his way to my place by our old mailbox.

“Oh, yeah. It’s beautiful.”

“I’ve heard so many stories about how this place came to be. My favorite though, is that a girl wanted to be the best florist in the world. So she began to experiment and grow flowers in her yard. But it blossomed out of control. See what I did there?” He gave me a corny smile and turned to face me.

“I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, she must’ve been one heck of a green thumb.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “One heck of a green thumb indeed.”

The Crows Sing

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd Their caws disheartening and loud We are stuffed and cannot get out we look to the crows to fly north or south.

To my left the lady falls To my right a crow caws above me there’s clouds I check for the calm, and the crows are still loud.

The crows is moving, yet we’ve hit another wall the crows are flying another way, we still follow their panicked caw I’m holding on with nerves those around me are falling and getting hurt what do we do when we are all laid on the dirt?

it’s been days and i’m running with my eyes closed i don’t care if i fall and break my nose the crows still caw yet this crowd has lessened i open my eyes to check, and notice i’m the last one standing.

what was my goal? to survive or just live? where are the crows? and the people who’d run and skip?

i stop running and take a look around i see my thoughts in the clouds and photos of me broken on the ground my heart starts racing, and the crows get loud.

my eyes open again i look around my room and it spins the knot in my stomach is thick i hold my stomach, my nerves made me sick.

i can still hear the crows this time they say words, only ones i know. it twists my stomach into knots and i lay here, telling myself that i’m someone i’m not.

maybe i am? maybe my words are true? i limp to my mirror, my mind answers my questions “that’s you!” it yells this 5 times, to each version my eyes create, none are familiar to me, i’m stuck like an inmate.

i’m staring into who should be me who is she and why is it loud? my eyes are searching, for a me i can’t see what are the crows still crowing about?

my ears are ringing my mind full of doubt these crows are now singing as i lay here lifeless on the ground.