Perfect Match

This piece was inspired by Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult.

I Am a Perfect Match 
Genivyve Smith
13 Feb. 2014

I am a mother, a district attorney
I wonder who hurt my son
I hear sadness
I see that everything’s okay
I want revenge
I am a mother, a district attorney

I pretend I protected everyone
I feel disappointment
I touch hope
I worry I can’t protect anyone anymore
I cry for him
I am a mother, a district attorney

I understand people can fall through the cracks
I say justice
I dream that everything’s okay
I try to fight
I hope for freedom
I am a mother, a district attorney


Searching For My Words ©

Searching For My Words *
Genivyve Smith

All the words I never said,
The actions I never did,
You can’t read them on my face.
You can’t see them anyplace.
And now as you seacrch around and around,
I’ve hidden the words you’ve never found.
You can not find them. You cannot see.
All those words hidden inside of me.
Thoose emotions never expressed…
The things I’ll never confess,
Those secrets are locked away.
All those words I can’t find;
Those words are not kind.
You may think you know me
But don’t let your vision blur,
‘Cause you can’t see –
All the words I never said,
All the actions I never did.

*This was published in The Conrad Record: Your Hometown paper Serving Beaman,Conrad, Liscomb, Union, Whitten and Central Iowa. 


Genivyve Smith 
Sat. 6 April 2013

Hmmmm he looks over

She turns glancing- feeling

It’s a wicked life.

(Note: Used Writer’s Blocks with the rolled theme of “A Reflection on my Romantic Life.” Made to be a Hakiu.)



Genivyve Smith 
24 February 2013

There was a guy.
His name was Ty.
His shirt needed a tie
and pants in need of a dye.
He was quite shy
when this girl said, “Hi.”
Soon she became the apple of his eye,
giving him a natural high.
Well the days passed by
as they ate butter and rye
(which he would buy)
with the surprise of pumpkin pie
adding pounds to each thigh…
Oh my!
Now there’s nothing left to try,
for he happened to lie,
and he happened to die.
She starts to cry.

The Word

The Word 
Pablo Neruda

The word was born
in the blood,
it grew in the dark body, pulsing,
and took flight with the lips and mouth.

Farther away and nearer,
still, still it came
from dead fathers and from wandering races,
from territories that had become stone,
that had tired of their poor tribes,
because when grief set out on the road
the people went and arrived
and united new land and water
to sow their word once again.
And that’s why the inheritance is this:
this is the air that connects us
with the buried man and with the dawn
of new beings that haven’t yet arisen.

Still the atmosphere trembles
with the first word
with panic and groaning.
It emerged
from the darkness
and even now there is no thunder
that thunders with the iron sound
of that word,
the first
word uttered:
perhaps it was just a whisper, a raindrop,
but its cascade still falls and falls.

Later on, meaning fills the word.
It stayed pregnant and was filled with lives,
everything was births and sounds:
affirmation, clarity, strength,
negation, destruction, death:
the name took on all the powers
and combined existence with essence
in its electric beauty.

Human word, syllable, flank
of long light and hard silver,
hereditary goblet that receives
the communications of the blood:
it is here that silence was formed by
the whole of the human word
and not to speak is to die among beings:
language extends out to the hair,
the mouth speaks without moving the lips:
suddenly the eyes are words.

I take the word and move
through it, as if it were
only a human form,
its lines delight me and I sail
in each resonance of language:
I utter and I am
and across the boundary of words,
without speaking, I approach silence.

I drink to the word, raising
a word or crystalline cup,
in it I drink
the wine of language
or unfathomable water,

maternal source of all words,
and cup and water and wine
give rise to my song
because the name is origin
and green life: it is blood,
the blood that expresses its substance,
and thus its unrolling is prepared:
words give crystal to the crystal,
blood to the blood,
and give life to life.


William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Genivyve Smith
Jan 16, 2013

I sit here.

You all stare,

but don’t do anything.

I act like I don’t mind.



I sit here;

all you can do is take away the chairs,

“Do you mind if I…

[take this chair]…?”



I sit here

and some have noticed

Stated even,

“I saw you sitting alone it made me feel bad.”



I sit here.

Yet do you come join me?

Yet do you come offer me a spot?



I sit here

And its okay I give more then I take

Getting taken advantage of

I’m used to it

Or am I the one at fault?



I sit here

And its okay

Cause I pick up my own pieces

Always have.



I sit here


Swallowed by my fear

Thinking about it is queer…