Literature, Poetry, Writing, & Etc. 

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As some may know, thoughts and ideas have a particular need to be articulated in a certain medium. Sometimes, that medium is the written word.  To see more, visit my deviantART page or my Tumblr. 

I Think His Name is Darryl
Michelle Sharp, January 13, 2013

There’s a man
I always meet
Around town
At the bus stop
Outside the grocery store
On the street

And he tells me
Of Detroit
            His daughters in Georgia
            Alcohol
            Drugs
            Music
            Money
            Milwaukee
            Church
            Thanksgiving
            The wine his daddy bought
            Silent women
            How he’s sixty-five
            How I don’t want to end up like him
            How the world is for my generation

I bought him a loaf of bread once;
He saw me outside the grocery store
And I didn’t have cash to put towards the hamburger he wanted

When I gave it to him and he said,
            “I love you.”

He never recognizes me when we meet.

Dirt in the Hair
Michelle Sharp, Fall 2012

Awake, or so it seems
Funny, the dreams and happiness turned into pain and shame between neck and neck
“That empty coat rack, that’s your fault, you fucker.”
Wipes his mouth on a stained, plaid sleeve
Dirt in the hair becomes dirt in the hand becomes dirt on the glass and mouth to mouth
Only to find both dry. 

The Infection
Michelle Sharp, Fall 2012

Swollen and aching, my thumb feels heavy. It throbs and I can feel it inflate, slowly, in sync with my pulse. The skin is dry and flaking, rough like sandpaper lizard skin. Oddly, my lips feel lizard skin, too. I sit, wait, watch. My thumb balloons. I watch it crack. Tiny little sliver. A side-stitch for my thumb. Starting at the knuckle, parallel to the bone, up to my nail. Nothing comes out. Lizard-skin pickle, dry and cracking. No blood, just dehydrated flesh and wood-shaving epidermis. My thumb still inflates, even though it's punctured. The crack grows. It deepens, widens. The sliver becomes a crack. The crack becomes a gash. The gash becomes a crevice. The crevice becomes a chasm, rift, valley, gulch. A landmark. A landmark without blood or pus or plasma or life. All the while, my thumb feels heavy. Pulsing. Throbbing. I try to lift my hand. Briefly, I succeed. Thud. My thumb leans, falling back to the rough wood table. Pain spasms accompany the thud. Thumb grows. Crack grows. Eventually, I won't be able to pick up my hand. After that, the infection will spread to the rest of my hand. I sit and wait.
All artwork and writing is the sole property of Michelle Sharp and may not be used without her permission.