A Collection of Poetic Reflections - By Marlee Martinez

Written By: Marlee Martinez

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the realm of poetry, Marlee Martinez emerges as a profound voice, contributing a collection of ten evocative poems to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. The collection includes titles such as "Haunted House," "Warm Medicine," and "Purgatory," each a testament to Martinez's ability to weave complex emotions and vivid imagery. Her work delves into themes of memory, emotion, and the dichotomy of presence and absence, inviting readers into a world where the familiar and the haunting coexist.

About the Work

Marlee Martinez's poetry collection is a poignant exploration of the human condition, blending themes of nostalgia, introspection, and the natural world. Her literary style is rich with metaphor and vivid imagery, creating a tapestry of emotions that range from the haunting to the serene. Through her words, Martinez captures the essence of life's fleeting moments and the persistent shadows of memory, leaving a lasting impression on the reader.

In order of submission: "Haunted House", "Warm Medicine", "Purgatory", "Barren", "forever winter", "Fireflies", "Parasite", "stuck", "Vegetables", and "Page 11".

Original Submission by Marlee Martinez

Haunted House

I sit in my own sick,

amongst rotten wood and peeling plaster.

Agonizing, yet it’s comforting,

like an old pillow too worn out

that hurts your neck.

Familiarity decorates the horrors of this house

in glitter glue you keep finding for years

and pastes posters over holes in the wall.

Writing on the wall I cannot see,

the smoke sweeping each room

blinding me to the house’s decay.

Whispers of ghosts became white noise,

I can’t fall asleep without it anymore.

So Absence isn’t welcome in this haunted house,

instead we welcome the agony

like a childhood best friend.

The ghosts come in and out as they please,

whispering and whispering

what hides in dark corners underneath

piles of new decor for these cramped walls.

The ghosts tell me to die faster

so they can finally meet me,

like a drug telling me

the sickness is the cure.

They cannot hear my footsteps

climbing the creaking stairs,

they are too busy making a mockery of

how I haven’t used the backyard in years.

It’s all dust out there anyway,

graves in rows where the ghosts arise,

they never fail to make it inside.

Out there, daisies rot, the sun stings,

the garden gutted, and in its place

lies caskets and echoes of the dead.

So I stay inside,

sitting alone in the smoke.

In a house built by ghosts,

wood comes not from trees but caskets,

cracked open and ripped apart,

the lumber already splitting as

the house builds and ceilings drop.

Lying on the floor, all I see is shadows.

I forget the moon’s curvature,

how its light sings in the blackest night.

I have only one light,

a floor lamp with a dying lightbulb.

It stands shyly in the center of the room,

as if waiting to be knocked over.

The light flickers in its old age,

so dim it only picks up the smoke,

not bright enough to see the ghosts swarming.

The walls are ready to cave,

the ghosts screaming to be set free,

but I no longer know the outside world,

only these floors stained with glitter.

The planks have worn down and give splinters

from the friction of my bare feet

roaming the house over many years.

When this house is all I’ve known,

I’m forced to call it home.

Warm Medicine

Being loved by someone feels like

the way hot water feels

when it streams down my throat

and pools in my stomach,

bringing about a burst of warmth

that drifts through my whole body.

It feels like the sound of a babbling brook,

the water passing pebbles and rocks alike,

slowly, cautiously,

giggling at the love flowing by so steadily.

The hot water passes by the rocks in my chest,

pebbles so small they get lost in my lungs,

and I find its warmth reaching to

the edges of my fingertips.

I try running the water over my arms

or my head or wrists

but nothing can be ingested quite like love.

Like the fruity medicine kids drink with a sore throat,

sometimes it finds things other than soreness

hiding in pebbles and stones

that need a little warm water.

And all you need to do is swallow.

I only wish my throat wasn’t sore.

Purgatory

It’s all in your head.

Wash, sanitize, decontaminate.

Again.

Scrub, cleanse, sterilize.

Not enough.

Clean until you crack and bleed.

Keep doing it.

Wipes, sprays, alcohol.

You already need more.

Sick of the smell?

Sick of your complaints.

You must continue.

Everyone is seeing–

You must continue.

Everyone is judging–

You must continue.

The entire physical world – foreign.

Every item in your midst – unsafe.

Your own body compromised by

The air you breathe,

Chair you sit in,

Shoulder you rest your head on.

No person is safe.

People I love disgust me.

Dirty is everywhere, clean is nowhere.

You cannot escape pollution.

Touch is forbidden yet It

Never loosens its suffocating grip.

Relentlessly coats your view

In a muddied purgatory.

Living with the feeling of fraudulence

Permanently stained,

The danger is coming.

But is it?

You feel it.

Must be neutralized.

Wash, sanitize, decontaminate.

Again.

Scrub, cleanse, sterilize.

When will this end?

The filth won’t stop spreading.

What if it can’t be stopped?

Will it ever be enough?

Clean until you crack and bleed.

It’s all in your head.

Barren

I was once the seed of promise.

Pastoral glory in my sprout,

Radiating in encapsulating limerence.

My branches like beaming rays,

Engulfing dreams under a warmth

Only youth possesses.

But as I grew taller, my leaves more firm,

The winters grew harsher.

The atmosphere stinging cold

Or seeping heat.

And I, not fully grown and

Easy wounded by whipping wind,

Am now a barren maple

In a sea of evergreen pine.

I am lost in the view of

Lush trees glowing green year round in

Uniform forestry and beauty,

Yet I am simultaneously scrutinized.

Yet I, I am barren in winter,

And spring, and summer, and fall.

My annual regrowth never comes.

Neither evergreen nor deciduous.

Months are not marked by change,

And they bleed and bleed until the

Trunk merely counts the rings;

Not the children who sit beneath,

Not the fruits grown,

Not the branches climbed in wonder.

Nature remembers, but by nature

I cannot; because my leaves never return.

Frigidness stripping my limbs bare,

I not only lost natural purpose,

But now, “Maple” is but a word.

You cannot see my crimson in the fall,

Painting the sidewalk in

Crumbs of scarleted sunset.

Nor my golden atmosphere as the

Summer lemon shade engulfs the sun.

My emerald treasure lost,

One that sings of spring and

Childlike daydreams.

I am only stricken cold.

Frozen in winter as seasons pass.

Amongst regrowth and beauty,

I stand desolate and unfruitful.

forever winter

brown slush melts and floods the streets

the mud sloshing in my boots

as I trace the sidewalk

the bitterness bites at my neck

and snow pinches my face

the clouds gray and moldy

rolling right by me, I’m standing still

a ripe spot in the rotten comes overhead

and light catches my cheek,

the sun feels foreign.

my soaken boots squish under my feet

I take shelter and watch the flame pass.

Fireflies

I live aside light,

Hand in hand with darkness,

Both steering me along a twisted road

Seeming to spiral endlessly.

But time’s cruelty flickers,

It burns out the light,

Dying dim in jointed flame.

All I see now is my hand

Enveloped by the dark I share a trail with.

What truly lights my path is slower.

It’s the fireflies humming in the grass,

Dancing around your hurried feet,

Reminding you of the nature passing you by.

Meaning is found in blades of grass

We so meaninglessly sprint past,

Each telling its own story,

Waiting to sprout their own dandelions.

Parasite

Oh, to have the luxury of receiving

Rather than taking.

I’m a parasite, tearing away

Simply by existing and

Eating to survive.

My food is different

So I am a leech, a hindrance,

Something to be rid of.

Mutualism unfound or

Faulty in foundation

If it finds me, it’s flawed

Hosts few and far between,

It is my only resource,

Barely keeping me from starving

Will this parasite survive if

Its prey do not give willingly?

Eating each emblem they explicate

I suck out their good faith

Barely curbing my thirst.

I want to be good,

But I leech and eat instead.

I cannot help what I am born as.

Such scrutiny for the animal kingdom,

Yet I am simply one of the chain.

Give me your blood,

Offer your dripping flesh,

Or I have to take it for myself.

Try to wash me out,

Rip me from the skin I stand on,

I leech on and suck out everything.

But feed me, give willingly,

And a parasite is only a child.

stuck

It hits me suddenly,

washing over me and drowning me

in a fog that stings my lungs.

You notice, you try to urge it out of me,

but I hear the words in my head

and not my mouth

to externalize the pain in my locked body.

The ache in my chest blocks my limbs

and I cannot pick up my hand

to smooth your shoulder.

Sitting with a gut-wrenching sob

so intensely eating at the back of my throat

that it makes my food taste bland,

The voice silently screams, my voice lost.

Unable to outrun the sorrow,

I join hands with it, sitting together

as we wait out the rain.

The clouds had been billowing for days,

but we hoped the sun might chase them away.

Instead a monsoon floods the streets and

afterward, the whole town smells like wet asphalt.

A scent I used to love,

but I never liked the rain.

Vegetables

Like swapping stories at the dinner table

we’ll laugh and dance around the darkness.

You ask me how my day was,

knowing you’ll get the same answer.

You always tell me to eat my vegetables

and pick up my plate,

but not to worry about the other plates at the table.

You made asparagus and broccoli

and tried to season them the way I like,

but I cannot seem to put them in my mouth.

You gently offer to put the greens on my plate,

giving me as small a scoop as you can manage,

and I simply stare at the pile in front of me.

Sorrow dances in your eyes,

knowing you cannot force the food down.

Maybe the vegetables would make me big and strong,

but I push them around the plate with my fork.

Page 11

I remember how I felt.

So distinctly pained and aimless

the page could never show you how.

I watched chapters flip in front of me

but I haven’t read the words.

It keeps flipping and turning

and I can’t catch up

to my own story.

Memories and moments scatter

throughout the chapters

until nothing is chronological

and the book is incomprehensible.

Nobody wants to read it anymore.

but I’m still stuck at page 11.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates diverse voices in the literary arts. This platform provides writers worldwide with the opportunity to share their creative expressions. Participants explore themes that resonate on a personal and universal level, contributing to a rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Marlee Martinez for her moving contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her poetry collection, a deep dive into the complexities of emotion and memory, enriches the literary landscape. We look forward to witnessing the continued evolution of her poetic journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.