A collection of four poems about Finnick for Caesar's Palace's Prompts, the Alphabet Game 2.0 and the Challenges by the Dozen Challenge (also challenges at the forum Caesar's Palace). I swore to myself I'd never write fanfiction poetry after embarrassing myself before, but here I am ready to do that again
I. Untoward
A time will come when all men fail
to capture hearts of women fair,
but to that place we've not set sail;
yet many men solemnly swear
that girls are shier as the years go by.
Yet this young boy, Finnick of Four,
Scarred by the games we play, will fly
through beds of girls like noone has before.
But then again, never has a child among children won.
(won what?)
A ticket out of poverty?
A visitor pass into luxury,
the bedrooms that Snow sends him to?
The girls touch him, untoward, feeling his
chest, so small. He must not be a child if he won,
if Snow thinks he's ready.
He can't be a child with a glare like that,
fierce and sultry, a tan
that speaks of summer sun.
He couldn't be a child with a face like that,
broken and understanding not this
but much else.
II. Transcend
He rises off the blank stage, suspended,
the air wrapping itself around his legs,
in wisps like fog of yesterday's morning.
His image from his younger phase has aged,
and so a new reveal begins tonight,
displaying what new features he offers,
like the bulky arms and tight thighs to match.
No longer will he be the gentle boy,
virginal, opening like a flower,
for there is no use pretending that.
A tiger (drugged) enters the stage below,
and he falls on it like a hungry bear.
He's a savage, now. Only a savage
could win the games, could kill the girl, but not
himself. He's not allowed.
III. Serendipity
Before:
Dinner, he found out he was going into the games again.
Nightfall, he found out he wouldn't have to go with Annie. She probably wouldn't watch the T.V.
The drawing, he said: I won't gnash my teeth. I'll go quietly.
He stepped into the tube, his mentor (himself) said, quietly: here we go.
After:
Dinner, he clenched his fist, his feet, his eyes, tried not to throw anything against the wall.
That, he threw himself.
Nightfall, he lay in his bed, thinking, guilty that for a moment he thought: I'm glad I broke my finger to save Mags' life a few months ago. What a chance that her life would come in handy.
He emerged into a lake, he thought: What a coincidence that these games would give me a rebellion.
IV. Buffoon
Finnick is wrong a lot of the time. He's feels wrong most of the time. His skin, stretched tight feels wrong. His brain, half-dead feels wrong. His fingers, his toes, don't belong to him. But he says the wrong thing to everybody he meets at least once, and it carves out a piece of him every time.
You're not getting any younger.
I don't want to.
What are you going to do about it?
You're hurting me; could you try something else.
Sorry, I don't smoke or drink.
I have a girl back home.
I want to go home.
I can't come home.