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?

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.

Dizzy is an Emotion

Goodness, how long its been since I’ve last posted on here. As a way to kind of resurrect this blog I will post a poem below that I wrote for my poetry class last semester. This assignment entailed using a chosen word 26 times throughout the poem in varying ways as to sound lyrical instead of redundant. I’ve since edited this poem to where it sounds a tad more fluid despite the urgency the poem possesses, however, you will certainly be able to pick out the word I chose to repeat.
This poetry class through which this poem was brought to life, was one that I consider as a turning point for my writing. If you have read any of my previous work that I posted on this blog, you might agree that they were either bland or extremely similar and typical. My professor whom I absolutely love, gave me some great advice: poetry does not need to be beautiful, have a message, or leave a satisfying taste in your mouth. Sometimes ugly poetry is what we best relate to. Poetry that steps out of bounds and uses words in ways that leaves you confused, but in that confusion somehow we find understanding.

Without further ado, my crazy, cooky poem:

Dizzy is an Emotion

What’s in a mind?
An old cassette wheel
Winding and rewinding
The faults and tragedies
Of our past?
A cloud hovering in white
Space as static
Churns and binds
Scratching for
Release?

This mind is a game of
Sudoku I can never win.
It’s a child holding
A bottle of pop
He has shaken.
With a desire to ease
His thirst, he only
Holds the bottle and refrains
From twisting the cap
With his chubby fingers
Slick with fry grease.

It’s a blue sky kind of mind.
A black bird in a world of doves
As the trees echo through their branches:
“Blackbird, fly.”
But fly this mind does not.
It’s a wooden rocking chair
Bolted to the ground
From which an old woman
In tattered clothes sits.

This mind is a stale reject.
A rose dress screaming
At a wall because it’s yellow.
This mind destroys life
And creates nonsense.
Like waves, but never the ocean.
Like a clear mind your fingers
Have smudged.

Three guys and a girl
Walk into a bar.
How fuzzy is your mind?
Drugs and laughter
Expand the mind
But alcohol and gossip
Restrict its flow
Because this is a
Dripping stream
Next to a river
Kind of mind.
Which does this mind prefer?

They see the outer shell
Of this mind.
A pale orange,
Light blue,
Peachy, thunderstorm
And earthquake
Kind of mind.
With pages and pages
Torn, rewritten, erased,
Scribbled out, burned,
And sent through a shredder
But only to still remain
On the shelf you’ve last
Set them. Next
To the vase and window.

It’s a cut and dripping blood
Kind of mind. Blonde curls
On the floor next to an idea
Mind, but only a voiceless exhale.
Mind over reality.
Does it have a mind?
A bisexual, torn skin,
Screaming lungs,
Laughing eyes,
Twirling dress,
One day at a time
Kind of mind?

What’s in a mind?
Nonsense and disorder,
For this mind. A paint
Your reality and fuck the tradition
Kind of mind. A mind of sun-
Flowers and summer rain.
A quilted bed of snow mind.
A hushed midnight sigh mind.
A mind at ease.

My Equality Anthem

 

He, she, they, them,

We, were, walking

Between the beginning and end;

The many pieces of myself

Following the sound of the misshapen

Drum the world beats.

Thump and pound

Until our lives are obstructed

And bruises leave scars;

Cotton candy skin deeper

Than the bags under your eyes.

Lead me to the town

Where looks don’t matter and dialect

Is a feeling of understanding

Between the badum of the drum

And hum of our voices.

Vibrate through your throat

And release all desires

Because today we walk

Along a road of gunfire.

My hair is too loud to hear you.

We don’t sing the tunes that you do.

We tisk and wop as our bare feet step

Following the path in our naked bodies

While you hold assault rifles.

Guns, shoot, us, down

Within my spirit I am

The color of marigolds and lemon meringue.

A sensation so sweet your mind will water.

Drown in the river of peace

And walk among the sky’s changing colors.

I am them. They are we. He and she.

An anthem of nothing

And everything that matters.

Lost People and False Realties

Travis found another bottle of lighter fluid in the back seat of his Jeep and clumsily tossed it over to Marcus, a guy in a black hoodie who then drenched the remaining branches and tossed them into the fire. The world around us didn’t matter in this moment. Before, we all piled into trucks, jeeps, and a Rav4 and managed to remain conspicuous while trespassing on private property. We pulled over on the highway, turned off our headlights, waited till what seemed like the last car rolled passed, then pulled in between a few trees where a path had been created, not normally seen while passing on the road rolling at 70 miles per hour, that is unless you scoped it out a day ahead of time.

This path must have been created by kids with motorbikes or four-wheelers. With twenty-some people crammed into a Dodge, Chevy, Jeep, and a crappy Toyota the stutters left bruises on each other’s heads and the tight quarters to awkward small talk. The guys in the trucks slowly rolled over every whoop as the rest of us in the Jeep and Rav4 took the risk and skipped over every jump and crashed down into the pits until our entire vehicle’s bright red and steal blue body was coated in a thick layer of mud.

At the end of the trail the scenery opened to where we could see the crescent moon gleaming against the river. The trucks were parked along the edge of the river to block the sight of the houses that lay across the water. It was somewhere between one and two in the morning when we first pulled off the highway, but when we were here time didn’t matter to us. We were in the age of invincibility and may as well have worn “F You” across our foreheads. To me this was my family, the twenty some group of people with whom I hung out with after school but wouldn’t dare acknowledge in the hallways. This was our group, our army of weirdos, popular kids, jocks, and drop-outs that could no longer stand the cold breathe of conformity, so instead we lit the world on fire.

From behind the two trucks could easily be seen a community; mansions owned by the rich with their opaque outer shells that cover up dysfunction and lose their allure at night. In front of the two trucks was a blustering fire, lit with rage, and fueled by lighter fluid and excess gasoline poured into glass bottles and launched into the flames. We fed off of the sound of breaking glass and the appeal of an erupting fire, a gust so strong there is no doubt it grew higher than the truck barricade hiding the pearly houses.

We drank, we yelled, and we smoked. We sank deeper than the pits we drove into but screamed the entire way. Together we were falling, a clan of overly emotional and angry kids that saw nothing but the hatred that blinded them and the overwhelming heat of flames. Our minds were dazed and fuzzy but that was a feeling we embraced.

Travis stood on top of a dirt pile and yelled obscenities with no real meaning, however, the message was all too clear. In response we yelled back, a strange sound along the lines of animals roaring and chanting, mixed with the revving and grind of four-wheelers that were brought along in the beds of the two trucks.

Nothing in that moment made sense and that was more or less the point. We all carried so much stress from attending or formerly attending a prestigious high school, living in a community with the weight of normalcy pulling us down, fighting to find common ground with our desires and reality, and facing the day with a fake smile when all we really wanted to do is run away and never look back. When we were all together and as far away from being sober as possible is when we felt that we had finally made our escape, but what we didn’t know is that eventually one day we would be forced to face reality with nothing to show but the hatred behind our eyes and the mud stuck in the treads of our shoes.

Eventually this day came and we had to make our decisions. A few found their realities in jail, some in college, one continues to run, and one saw facing their reality all too much. For me, I continue to write and rewrite my reality, taking control of what I am instead of leaving fate with all the power. And in my reality, I found that none of my friends from our adventures deep into the night, surrounded by nothing by trees, flames, and beer bottles had a place.

Hello, I Suck

Hello, I’m a terrible blogger who will sit in front of her laptop for hours writing and rewriting posts to then later delete everything and call it a day. I feel self conscious about what I write and sometimes delete posts days later because I still feel embarrassed.

Hello, I’m a terrible blogger who will tell people I have a blog but will not give them its name because I fear criticism. When someone asks me “what do you blog about?” I freeze and quickly make something up because, although I do post short stories and poetry, I also post about personal matters that I would rather leave behind a glass screen for people who haven’t seen my face to read.

Hello, I’m a terrible blogger that will think of creative ideas for posts when I should be studying for class, then blank as soon as I put my fingers to the computer keys. I fantasize about being a well know blogger and writer, and yet my mind stumbles like my fingers stumble along the keyboard. Words get mixed up, letters appear in the wrong place, I hit the wrong punctuation key, I backspace by accident, or I add too many spaces. No wonder I can’t bring the ideas from my head to appear behind the glowing screen in front of me. They’re just being spat out in all the wrong places.

Hello, I’m a terrible blogger that has little to no confidence in myself and somehow hopes people will enjoy my writing. Being a blogger means that you have the power of self expression with the mystery of being an icon image in the corner of another’s screen, and yet, I struggle to put myself virtually out there even if it is just the arrangement of 26 letters that I create.

Hello, I’m a terrible blogger who is on the search for self-awareness, self-love, confidence, the beauty in my shadow, and that light some say they seen in my eyes. I crave a change and I feel as though I am finally ready to make that journey to so save myself, but how does one begin? It is a mystery worth solving.

 

A Few Things I’ve Learned About Myself Through Blogging

Hello fellow bloggers and happy Sunday!

Maybe it’s because it’s Sunday, or maybe it’s because it’s the first time in awhile it’s been somewhat warm here in Baltimore that encouraged me to look back on how far I’ve grown since I began this journey. Whatever the reason is, I’ve decided to write this blog post to share with you all about my experience thus far.

Like most college students, I am consumed by the tremendous amount of work that I am required to complete to show my worthiness of being a working citizen after I spend thousands of dollars to receive a degree. I mean, I like writing about the millions of Sherlock Holmes adaptations as the next person (like,  I actually really enjoyed that assignment) so hopefully that will propel me full speed ahead to an awesome career once I graduate.

Also like many college students, when all the work for the day has been completed I instantly shlumped into the couch and became one with the cushions with a bag of cinnamon apple chips laying on my chest while I watch The Big Bang Theory marathon that seems to be a never ending thing in the tv world. Whenever I was not busy with piles of homework I became the laziest human being. The pile of unread books in my bedroom started collecting dust and never decreased in size, my laptop was only opened to complete assignments or to watch Netflix, and my creativity was completely blocked off as I reached for the remote instead of a pen.

I became a ghost of myself, moving through life without any color oozing from my hands or mind as it once had, and as I wished it would.

I started this blogging adventure last summer (very slowly at first) and I’ll be honest, my posts were boring and didn’t represent me in any way. I was told by a neighbor that I should start a blog to work on my writing skills and to get my feet wet in various topics. So I did.

I was so enthralled by the idea of being a blogger that I seemed to write on autopilot and didn’t tap into what I found interesting, instead I only focused on what I felt was meant to be discussed. Yes, some of my earlier posts were not so terrible, however, they felt meaningless among all the other topics I have nestled inside me.

After some time I began putting more time into my posts and writing about what I love instead of what some might expect. I began to lighten up and shook off the molds I’ve grown accustomed to, and let me tell you, it felt AMAZING!!

My parents may have lost a few years from reading a few of my posts where I cuss or talk about eccentric topics they had no clue blew through my mind, sorry mom and dad (they don’t read my blog anymore), but at least now I have some kind of mental release.

From devoting myself to the world of blogging, I learned that I am an introverted person. I hold so many emotions in my body and never release them to anyone because I feel like they shouldn’t have to worry about my problems when they have plenty of their own. This blog has become my therapist, to say the least. Although I try my best not to rant, the poetry I post speaks high volumes of my inner conscience. It’s amazing how a simple 16 line poem can speak years of mental breakdowns and sleepless nights.

I’ve learned that I do have an opinion and the power to voice my opinion. Many times I hid behind the words of other people who are louder than me, using them as a shield so I didn’t have to speak or be judged. This has been one of the largest mountains I’ve had to climb throughout my life. I know I had an opinion, everyone does, I just never spoke up when I had the opportunity. Our opinions are all worthy of being heard, even when we are the outcast, speak up and let yourself standout.

I’ve learned that there is always room for growth and my writing will only improve as I continue down this road. Every writer has anxiety about not being liked, something that will inevitably happen but is no reason for us to stop writing. I am never going to stop writing. The likes or shares or comments we get on our posts are no indication of how we are as humans or even as writers. I’ve dealt with the constant anxiety of being considered a poor writer, and maybe I am, but I won’t be forever. I will improve and I will continue to write despite still being indecisive where a comma should go or what words I should take out.

This has been such a positive experience for me and I am so glad I decided down this path. My confidence has grown and so have my writing skills. I’m not a perfect writer, I know that, but that is not what I am working towards because I know if I do I’ll just be let down when I see the road is never ending and with no clear destination. I’m just going to keep on moving and will never stop. The view is too spectacular to turn around and to head backwards.