Blank and Broken Pages

What do you do when

the world seems so cold that

even writing can’t provide warmth.

Your being shivers as you try to

cover yourself with the tiny flame

that normally is an inferno;

your hands type along the keys

but they are slow and weak.

Your eyes are soft, your heart motionless,

and mind blank. Who has this power?

How do you conquer? Or is this

just the way that it is going to be?

Don’t Kiss Me, I’m Dying

Forget me not’s in plastic cups

You bring to your lips

To run down your esophagus

Like it is a drain and your body

The ocean where the rest of

Your being will soon drown.

 

A river of death but I am not sad.

This is the choice of the sinister

Twisted head figure that scurries

From bar to bar grasping

For that one last drink. Blacked-out

 

Is how you would rather be, but please

Don’t try to convince me

That this being is free.

The tide is stronger than it seems

And you are already caught in a riptide.

Bodies balance atop the bountiful seas,

Buoyant and battling a demon

 

Brought to you by the local liquor

Store. Blame the man. He surely put that

Drink in your hand. I repeat verbatim.

You sink voiceless. Only your eyes scream

And your skin sags but your mind is too dazed

To notice the water lifting you towards the sky.

If only you’d open your eyes and look up;

 

The sky is so peaceful and the birds still fly

Despite you feeling like you’re dying.

I won’t say “it gets better”,

Things never “happen for a reason”.

I speak to you in clichés because that

Is how the world will lie to you.

Don’t believe in bumper sticker talk,

 

Billboard promises, and talk show tales.

The news carries nothing new. To begin

Life anew it all starts with you. And yet

Here I am pretending to be speaking to

Someone else when I know all to well

That the “you’ in this poem is me,

And the feeling of dying comes

Before I take the bottle and only

 

Worsens after the twentieth sip.

I pace in my bedroom mumbling,

Crying, silently sobbing, sipping,

Gulping, drinking, bleeding from

The inside then purposefully

On the outside. This is life.

This is depression. This is the glorious,

Romanticized disease that carries

Me across the ocean after I’ve jumped

From the canoe, hoping to drown.

This. Is. it.

My Colors in Baltimore

Like a stone cast

Across a river in cascading

Blues and yellows, I shine

And reflect the eloquence

Of the world around me.

With each skip, pop, and skate

My eyes radiate in your tender

Turquoise and reflect your gentle

Trees that furrow under my feet.

In faded greens that are the veins

Carrying my heartbeat, my fingers

Intertwine and lashes dance.

The fluidity of blonde and peach

In an array of sunbeams.

A simplistic dream

As a girl in the city sleeps.

 

There is no solace

Found under the night

Sun of streetlamps.

The abundance of metal

And concrete is not

The result of human nature,

But is the nature

Of a species that

Can never stop, think.

The air that moves does not

Flow like the river in their bodies.

The madness of their minds

Only reflects on their walk home,

Through blood ridden alleys, drug

Induced slumbers, slouching slanted

Sinister sidewalks, dressed like

Your last midnight battle.

 

She is the one who daydreams

Deep into the night, carrying

Her life in a backpack, holding herself

Together with duct tape and iron

On patches. Cracked skin, re-stitched

Seams, and abandoned apartments.

Summer in her eyes, autumn in her hair,

Spring in her smile, winter on her breath.

A momentous serenade of a mosaic life

When all the broken pieces come together

Beautifully.

The Crow Girl and Darkened Dreams

The crow girl sits on the balcony

And coos her voice in a rattling song.

Her feathers lay low, her neck hunched,

And her being the midnight’s songbird.

 

Twisted wings like twigs laying along the railing,

Killing the night-walkers in an enemy’s

Voyage into the deep sanctuary that is her home.

 

Tethered strings; there is nothing more beautiful

As they lay along the metal guard

And loosely lean with the wind.

 

Deep blue and dainty shreds of a fine lady’s dress

That’s seams have fallen and followed behind her.

A new ghostly member of the nighttime parade.

 

A darkness hangs over the city

But nothing darker than the exasperated

Flame in the grow girl’s eyes. Don’t blink.

Forget her mark and carry yourself towards day.

 

Nothing will be new tomorrow, everything is laid

Before you today. Grasp your own midnight

And let it sing. It will thank you and your

True side will finally be free.

City Street’s Symphony

Listen:

If I wanted to be called

Beautiful from your roaring,

Pouring mouth I would have

Carried a canoe and a paddle

As I walked along the street.

The words forming between

Your cracked, bristle hovering lips

Are not enticing to me.

I do not swim in your

Lake of lackluster;

Conversations begin with hello

Not “What’s up, sexy”.

Don’t look at me with

That smirk and those twisted

Eyes, this slab of meat is

Too rare and ready to poison.

Fuck your crossed lines

That bring you to graze your fingers

Along my jean back-pockets.

I do not desire the touch of a stranger,

Neither on the street or in the bar.

Your willingness to invade me

Is revolting. Respect is a jagged line

That you tiptoe over without hesitation.

I, for one, wish that line

To be repaired and thickened

So people like you can clearly see

The trails of their mistakes.

Forgive and Forget Yourself

Forgiveness: the kidnapped

Killjoy that no one wants to release.

Feel it between your fingers

As you soften your grip

And let it breathe.

Slow and uneven inhales.

Apologies: the acid drip

Drip dripping stinging

Sizzling against the papier

Mache that is your skin.

But the poor kids are quick

To offer their inner captive.

Their rations are never full

But forever handed to

The folks in golden bowties

And empty minds.

Acceptance: the shade of purple

In the sky after a devastating storm.

The refreshment of the soul

That pours during a summer rain.

Soak in its fluidity and flourish

In its nourishment. The ground

Will forever be below your feet

And the birds will cover the sky.

Just listen to the wind

And turn your face to the right direction

Before settling into your new born path.

Another Statistic: The Ignored Culture

Dark midnight streets

Caught in a firestorm

In the middle of the day.

Gliding parachutes in fearful rays;

Colors falling from the sky

That retreated from the sun

That burned them to shreds.

Eighteen blue threads in mix-matched

And unforgiving reds. The loudmouth

Without vocal cords, but a terrifying

And thrusting body. Covered yourself

The sun is on the run. Twist and shove.

Scratch and rip but remain quiet

Or you’ll become to sun’s second wind.

It’s hands hurt you. They push against you

And inside you a knife tears out

Your womanhood and leaves you full.

Whisper the sun a plead, a fight

Of your tipsy army leaning in the wrong direction.

Just lay where you are the soon it will be over.

Soon is a thousand mile race while balancing

Champagne glasses on your head. From this

You’ll be a pro at standing still. Your body

Forever silent.