Unspoken Rewritten

if words could fall

I would let them sink

furrow into the ground beneath

and then grow

along the

tops

of trees and sprawl through the veins

of our mother’s open arms

breathless is the lost unspoken word

that the wind carries

the ghosts of missed

and broken

opportunities

exhaled into vapor

what you feel but do not see unless

you use your fingertips as your eyes

feel the words that leave your right brain

and notice their density as molecules swarming

through the open air and not ever quite as small

as you thought they were when your arms

refused to notice the shape

of the  sounds around you.

 

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.

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.

The Unchangeable Man

What is the most changeable part of an old man? His hair, surely, but definitely not his mind. The hairs on his head rework, thin, and disappear, but his mind will never reform.

So what is it with the old man who lives next door? He sways on his deck-swing every morning while smoking his pipe. I’ve grown to memorize the tobacco he smokes just from the times I’ve rode by while on my bike on the way to school. And each morning he raises his stale eyes from behind his round metal glasses just enough to peep at me as I pedal by, then grumbles to himself. He lives in routine.

Last night I sat on my roof overlooking the trees that flourish over the land across from my house, and I saw him. His metal framed glasses reflected against the dim streetlamps as he silently swayed into the woods. Afraid the old man would get lost or had dementia, or something, I followed him.

He took the route along the creek and didn’t trip over a single rock. His feet knew their path as if they’ve done this 100 times before. I stumbled behind as I followed the glow of his flashlight and kept my distance to not be heard or seen. When the old man stopped, so did I. When he turned around to check his surroundings, I hid. When he took in a breath I mimicked him, paranoid my breathing was competing with the creek’s gentle flow.

Soon he stopped, faced towards the creek, and reached into his pocket. I found a thick tree to hide behind and peaked my eyes around it just enough to take in the strange man’s movements.

He pulled something out of his thick wool jacket. It was round and small and glimmered under the flashlight’s rays. The old man stepped towards the creek and stood between two trees that leaned in towards the water at a peculiar angle. I saw the old man lift his head, take in a breath, glasp his hands together, bring them to his mouth, then fall to his knees and weep.

I turned around and redirected my eyes away from the old man, the man known for throwing rocks at teens for egging his house. Instead, I now know him as the old man who cried along the creek, an unknowing side to the man who shut his front door in my little sister’s when she tried to sell him Girl Scout Cookies. Now, he’s the old man with a story not written across his face.

Step Two: Remove the Bandaid

Hello readers! Due to a recent turn of events (actually, quite a few of them) I have been unable and unwilling to write on my blog. Emotions have eaten me alive that last few weeks and I did not want that to show through my blog posts which sometimes tend to be somewhat depressive already. Anywho, I am proud to announce that step two of my Ten Steps to Getting your Sh*t Together has gone into effect!!

In case you have absolutely no clue what I am talking about, my Ten Steps list is a previous post I created that is supposed to help me get out of this rut I’ve been in for years. Now that I have realized that I am able to create myself and that I deserve all the happiness in the world, I have began a journey of enlightening myself even further to get this sad girl out in the world as a new self made and happy being.

Step two of my list was one i knew I needed to get done fast because of how easily I can reason with storing things I no longer need. I wouldn’t call myself a hoarder but clothes horse seems reasonable. I’m the person that will go shopping as a way to cover up emotions. When I feel sad or depressed I go to shopping centers and wander around. There’s something about being surrounded by colorful and fun fabrics that brings a smile to my face, and being able to buy them and call them mine, it’s like I am purchasing my own bit of happiness. After a recent breakdown, I realized these clothes I have accumulated are a kind of bandaid that has been covering up a much deeper wound, and the only way to get this wound to heal is to rip off the bandaid and let it breathe.

In the beginning, going through my clothes was easy and kind of fun. I went through one by one and easily tossed them into piles to either donate or keep. The donation pile grew and grew and I became skeptical that this was even going to help, but later as I began to get into my other clothing stashes, it hit me.

clothing 4.JPG

I looked at the gigantic pile of clothing on my bed and felt sick. This bandaid was larger than I thought and must have been there covering this deep wound for years. There were clothes in that pile that I have never seen before and many of them still had the tags on, and although I was ready to get rid of this pile of nonsense, I began to feel emotional from this sudden wave of vulnerability. These clothes have covered up the fact that on the inside my body is dressed in black and dark blue, a swirling mixture like a storm brewing in the sky. On the outside I am able to cover myself in bright outfits and a smile and a perky, glowing girl will shine through. getting rid of 50% of my closet means I would have less ways to hide.

clothing 6t

I will admit, I feel as though I should have donated more clothing than I did, but the mission of this journey is to allow myself to learn independence and grow, not completely lose myself in the process. My goal is to go back through these clothes and notice what I have not warn and get rid of it (especially those shoes… who wears that many pairs of shoes?!). There is no need to keep things for a make believe value when in reality they are just taking up space.

Once the clothes I have been piled up and placed in bags, I took them to a GoodWill and donated them. I took three large bags and one small bag overflowing with bright colors and gently worn fabrics. Seeing them go was easy, easier than putting them in piles at least. Once I had it in  my head that someone else can wear these clothes that I never paid too much time to, it made me feel proud of myself, but I’m still not done. Although I have let go of half of my closet, I still don’t feel like I have accomplished enough to be satisfied with myself. So, I will continue working through this list and see what I am capable of.

Let’s get this sad girl happy again and create her along the way.