June 10, 2017

Three Poems by Catherine Moscatt: "Troublemaker," "Promises to Sylvia," and "Party"

Catherine Moscatt is a 20 year old college student studying counseling and human services. When she is not writing poetry, she enjoys playing the piano, loud music and horror movies. She has been writing poetry since she was fourteen.



Has an egg shaped head
And a memory fuzzy
Like the outside of a peach

He sits
As though his office chair
Is a throne
Passing judgment
On those who dare come before him

His decisions
Are final
His rule is absolute
And he detests drama
Especially two days before Christmas

And then there’s me
I sit before him
With my fishnets and my combat boots
Just another decision

Two days before Christmas

He throws words at me
“Drama queen” and
“Trouble maker”

The kids have other names for me
But I don’t tell him that

After all I wouldn’t
Want to be a
Trouble maker

Its two days before Christmas
So he lets me go
He thinks he is being generous
It is not what I want to hear

I return to class
I doodle on my arm
And I curse my stupid principal
And his egg shaped head

                    Promises to Sylvia
               (A Letter to Sylvia Plath)

I want to be like you
But remembered
I want to turn this pain into art
Before it rips me apart
Want to make this tragedy worth something
I want to write
I need to write
As my pen flies across the paper
As my words fill the page
Eveyrthing’s all right
I want to be like you

I am like you
I know what it’s like
When the day turns to night
And your fingers find those pills
And there’s no other way
I am like you
When you’re close to the edge
And the only way is down
And you look around
No one to stop you
I know what it’s like

But I won’t be like you
I won’t be like you
I have the heart
I have the pain
But I can’t, I won’t go through it again
I will put down that poison
I’ll step away from the edge
I need to keep writing
I need to keep living
It’s sad but it’s true
I want to survive
So I won’t be like you


The carpet
Soft against my fingers
And the glass
Cool in my hand
The room is spinning
Only slightly

The counter is hard
As I lean against it
The room is loud
And so is the party
The room is spinning
A little faster

The tile floor is cool
As I lie on it
The vomit
Fresh in my mouth
The room is spinning
So damn fast

The bed is soft
I barely notice
His face is blurred
As he climbs on top
The room is spinning
I can’t move

The room is dark
The room is quiet
He is gone
I am alone
The room no longer spins

© Catherine Moscatt

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