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.

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.

Glucose Guardian

Hey, so I’m Rachel and I’m a girl. Cool? Cool! And you are (insert name) and you’re a (insert whatever here). Ah, righteous. Glad we got that out of the way…

But in all seriousness I never realized how uncomfortable and angry many groups of people are when it comes to nonconforming genders. Is it really that challenging to simply accept and continuing living when someone mentions that they prefer they/their pronouns as opposed to he/him or she/her? Oh Lord, they be tryin’a get rid of the binaries that been round forever! Well, no. We’re just trying to include all people without forcing them to be what society decides.

It’s simple, really. I’m a female and wish to be addressed as such, however, that doesn’t mean that the being next to me is in the same boat. We may dress the same, look the same, smell the same, and enjoy the same Netflix shows but that does not mean they are a female. Likewise, someone can choose to identify as something other than female or male: non binary.

Lets not go through the whole bathroom thing again. People are people and everyone deserves the right to express themselves, be who they are, choose who they are, and live a life as happily as possible, without strange people yelling in their faces about how vaginas and penises are gender determining while ranting about a man they pray to at their bedside and follow a book that somehow will lead them to a mythical place of winged people and puffy marshmallow clouds…. but that’s none of my business.

Instead let’s think about how we can be better ourselves as people, rather than staring at your next door neighbor through your cotton doily window curtains and ponder if they’re female or male, cause bigonnet, they better be one! But seriously, there’s world hunger, global warming, obesity, and apparently One Direction is getting back together. Move on!

And incase you’re wondering why this blog post is titled “Glucose Guardian” a friend of mine came up with the term to be the non binary replacement for sugar daddy. Which I thoroughly enjoy.

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.

Oh, To Be A Woman

A woman: a strong and powerful creature that is resilient, intelligent, and whatever the hell else they wanna be. But in the eyes of a few less gracious creatures, women are a sign of sex, submission, and objects. Today was a reminder for me that women are still far behind in reaching equality alongside males.

While watching the Olympics, anyone can hear the objectivism formed behind the announcers word choice. Female Olympic athletes’ success is given to their boyfriends, husbands, or coaches, instead of given directly to the amazing athlete who beat out majority of the world with their impeccable skills. Meanwhile, male athletes are given all of the praise for their hard work towards their skills and barely an ounce of praise is given to their coaches.

While walking on the streets this morning I was an object in the eyes of male gaze. Because of the heat advisory, this morning I decided to wear shorts… yuh know, the pants that attract male attention because of how they cover a female butt and yet reveal our legs (those obscenely sexy things that connect to a females’ naked body. Oh the horror). Okay, in all seriousness, it is expected to reach 100 degrees today and I didn’t feel like sweating it out in jeans and an oversized tee shirt.

As soon as I walked out of my apartment and saw myself in the reflection of a window, I was bombarded with an overwhelming feeling of regret. ‘I should have worn something different. There will be too much attention drawn towards me because of my washed out, high waisted shorts.’ Then I realized I was objectifying myself. I looked at my body and thought that too much of it was showing. ‘Maybe my shorts are too short and reveal too much of my jiggly thighs. Maybe my cropped shirt will blow in the wind and my navel will show. Maybe the black combat boots I’m wearing are too counterintuitive to the rest of my outfit that it will lead passerbyers to stare at me.’

I was appalled by very own reaction to what I was wearing. Just because I have decided to step out of my comfort zone and wear shorts does not mean I am breaking some figurative rule that will suddenly subject me to harassment on the street. But it did.

As I walked through the city, instantly I was facing catcalls and obscene remarks. As men drove by in their cars they honked, called out, or whistled. When I entered a cafe for breakfast, a man approached me and apologized for staring, all because I was wearing shorts. When I wore jeans and a tee shirt I experienced limited calls; however, this morning I put myself in a position that allowed men to view me as a object. A position that should not even exist. A position too many women are placed into just because they have a body and wear whatever the F…. they want.

It saddened me to know I almost reentered my apartment to change after noticing my reflection. The way someone dresses does not limit their value, and yet, while walking along the street my value diminishes to where it’s almost non-existent.

 

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.