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.

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.

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.

A Mind at Ease

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 cloth sits. 

This mind is a stale reject.

A Rose dress screaming 

At a wall because it’s yellow. 

This mind creates life

And destroys 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. 

Which does this mind prefer? 

They see the outer shell

Of this mind. 

A pale orange, 

Light blue, 

Peachy, thunder storm

And earthquakes 

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 the window. 

It’s a cut and dripping blood

Kind of mind. Blonde curls

On the floor with an idea

Mind but a voiceless exhale. 

Mind over reality. 

What is reality. 

Does it have a mind?

A bisexual, torn skin, 

Screaming lungs, 

Laughing eyes, 

Twirling dress,

One day driven 

Kind of mind?

What’s in a mind? 

Nonsense and disorder, 

For this mind. A create your

Reality and fuck the tradition 

Kind of mind. A mind of 

Sunflowers and summer rain. 

A quilted bed of snow mind. 

A hushed midnight sigh mind. 

A mind at ease. 

Living With Sham in a World of Greatness

We all strive for greatness,

but in my greatness

I am shameful.

Shame,

the drug my body

has fallen upon

and has lived.

In shame

I dream.

I dream of a better tomorrow,

I work and rework

my inner self,

and pretend my life

can get better.

Greatness,

what I may have achieved

but refuse to see,

the chalkboard

whipped clean

when it was already beautiful.

I, many times

have earned my right

to be happy. Every day.

But I won’t let myself see it.

So, what is greatness.

How do the ones

who never allow themselves

to see it,

earn it?