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?

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.

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.

Like a Child Learning to Ride a Bike

Remember that time you bought me flowers? It was the first time you ever expressed your admiration towards me. Every flower petal was perfectly in place and you said it was no big deal and I deserve it. You told me you loved me and I believed you. Your heart shined through your light blue button-down and your smile softened as you waited for my reply. Like a child standing in front of their class, butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I stuttered through my response. A response that lead you to cradle me in your arms and kiss me with lips as soft as silk.

Remember that time you told me you wanted to marry me? We were laying side by side when you took off your necklace and put it in my hands. Your eyes slowly glided from my hands to my face, undressing my body in an imaginative gaze until their found their place, sinking into my green eyes. A valley of wonder and promise. You spoke with tender words, as your hand tightened around mine with the necklace tangled in my fingers, then told me you loved me. You waited for some kind of reply, and like a child dancing in the rain, I gave my response. A response that lead you to cradle me in your arms and kiss me with lips as soft as steam.

Remember that time we sat for hours in your car? You remained motionless, your palms tightly clasped in your lap with your face lowered and eyes streaming with anger. Maybe it was something I said. Something you said. Something we both didn’t say. I left you car with eyes swollen and bloodshot, but later that night you texted me and said you loved me. You waited over an hour for me to reply, and like a child talking to its mother, I gave my response. A response that lead you to buy me flowers, with petals tender yet torn, you cradled me in your arms and kissed me with lips as soft as morning light.

Remember that time when the bed felt cold? Words were sharp and emotions were tender. You were resting beside me, body heavy as stone as an ocean churned between us. I rolled over to face you, and with your back as your barrier, you formed a wall to keep me out and my sorries away. I closed me eyes and wished this would disappear, but when they reopened your room was a blur, distorted between a watery haze. I whispered “I love you” and waited for your reply, but like a child lost in the woods, the tree did not respond. No longer would I be cradled in your arms and kissed with soft and tender lips. I got up to leave that night and you didn’t even stir. Your body remained motionless, breath steady, and eyes hazy. I turned to face you as I stood holding my jacket when the ocean sent a wave of clarity to wipe away my tears. You may once have told me you loved me, but the flowers you have given me have since wilted and died, and much like a child baring cuts and bruises, I learn from my mistakes and decided to move forward.

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.

 

Becoming the Knight

Why is it that we search for a savior

When we are the ones who should do the saving?

We wait for someone, as we continue to fight,

Until they suddenly appear and carry us to safety.

But what if they too need saving?

The knight in shining armor is stuck in a rut,

Crying at night, and sleeping during the day.

Their sword hung up on the wall next to the cabinet

where dusty, empty liquor bottles now reside.

So, where is your sword and suit or armor?

Are you willing to be the savior instead of waiting

For your life to fall into place while your lover sinks further

into the darkness of their minds?

Fight for them and be their hero.

How Do We Live?

Life is a strange thing where instead of looking at what we have right in front of us and admiring who we are in this second, we look towards the future and wish for change. There is so much in front of us in this moment and yet we only care about what we will make of ourselves next week, next month, next year, and even ten years from now.

I constantly feel like I am waiting for something or waiting for someone, but who? What? Why do I feel as though I need to have someone in my life to be happy when I can easily make something of myself all while alone?

I wonder, what would happen if instead of holding out for someone and waiting for that to push me into something different and better than who I am now, I live in the moment and live for me.

How many moments have we missed by waiting and wishing and living for something that could happen tomorrow or maybe not for ten years? Too many, that’s how many.

I wanna live for the moment and live for myself because this life may be the only one I have, and who knows, maybe I’m missing a part of my life that truly brings peace and happiness. Maybe there is something more than waiting and hoping. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

If you need me I’ll be living my life.

Blue Bird’s Song (a poem)

She’s the calming blue among a mystifying grey,

A fighter as art burning in your fiery rage.

The blue birds sing above the mountain’s arch,

Your hand pressing on her chest as she fights for a breath,

She prepares to be dropped into a pit of regret.

As you stand and watch, miles apart,

Your love for her is an anchor disguised as a net;

You should have help her but you left her instead

To burn in your rage and to fall from your cliff.

The birds flow around as she calls your name,

Only to be covered by feathers and songs

Of the ones who found love, the kind that holds on.

Replaced With New Bricks

The storm that came into her house

Left her cold and shivering.

She lives in a house of cards

That the wind blew down;

A crumbled building

Never given a second chance.

 

But she found a way to survive.

She slowly began to rebuild,

Pushing away the memories of you,

The one who helped her build this home

But then turned around,

Blowing in as a storm

And left her soaking.

 

But soon she won’t remember you.

You’ll be a postcard,

Crumbled and faded,

Buried in a trunk taking shelter

Among the other forgotten clutter

That once built up this home,

Now replaced with a brick,

Building her house stronger.