I used to bounce life on the tips of my fingers
like a beach ball
it felt so weightless
and forgetfully empty
the abounding ocean spread before me - sleeping on it like a blanket - soft and lulling
but also able to sweep the ball away
the current - set and predetermined
never knowing when you'll be engulfed
but hey
that's life at the beach.
My tiny red sailboat carrying me through
helping me escape from the processes of death
and avoid the reality of my emotions,
my situation,
and my choices.
Why else would I think it's ok
to wake up everyday
get stoned out of my mind
and drive myself and her to school.
President of the social studies honors society and LGBT club
Math
English
Spanish
and Theatre Honors Society member.
She strolls in everyday, sporting sweatpants 2 sizes too big
the same jacket she's worn for the past 2 years..
(it kinda smells like smoke but Mr. Miller is too nice to say anything)
She takes her seat alone in the front left corner of the room,
lays her head on her forearm,
facing the front
sometimes dozing, sometimes not
and remains this way for the next hour and a half.
She takes AP psych quizzes and she defines "trauma,"
not really thinking about the fact that she's living it.
But life at sea can do that to you
We forget where we are and what time it is
and just like that your ball is gone
along with your youth.
Striving to be better. http://sincerely-soallowed.tumblr.com/
Thursday, October 31, 2019
How a Sunday should feel
I never expected that looking through a frame to view another's way of life
would conjure so many feelings
especially when that life is made of paint.
The absence of peace
from a dream I didn't know could be reality
only being able to feel the memories of pain
because something shows you that it never had to be that way,
That Sunday feeling
doesn't have to be clenched heart and swollen under-eye bags
The sun coming in even though it's cold outside
but you're inside and it doesn't matter
because you still can't feel that warmth
...
Audible sensation allowing the curtains to rip open
and there's no more guessing,
you just know it's already a bad day
and it's going to take a lot for it not to be a bad night.
Memories that get tucked away at the bottom of a box in that room of your house that you never go into.
would conjure so many feelings
especially when that life is made of paint.
The absence of peace
from a dream I didn't know could be reality
only being able to feel the memories of pain
because something shows you that it never had to be that way,
That Sunday feeling
doesn't have to be clenched heart and swollen under-eye bags
The sun coming in even though it's cold outside
but you're inside and it doesn't matter
because you still can't feel that warmth
...
Audible sensation allowing the curtains to rip open
and there's no more guessing,
you just know it's already a bad day
and it's going to take a lot for it not to be a bad night.
Memories that get tucked away at the bottom of a box in that room of your house that you never go into.
the last love poem
stuck - like a caramel in the cavity of your molar
close enough to feel the sensation of sugar resting on your tongue,
salivating the sweetness but still unable to feel the chewy
satisfaction of breaking it down into a gooey stream..
The only poems I feel are made of love and heartbreak
"a walking cliche"
But I refuse to keep writing and allowing the continued ownership of my heart
by someone that doesn't want it.
I want to run on rainbows alone while piano sounds carry me through to a path of greater purpose and a stronger soul, all the while stopping to lay in all the gardens.
Getting grass stuck on my skin,
leaving lines and ridges on the surface of my legs,
tying myself in a bow
because self love can mean giving yourself a hug
because you mean it.
I do love me - I do,
filling those cavities because even though you love the taste,
an open hole in your bones, forever closing
but the feeling of swiping your tongue across the outer edges of your tooth
you'll always feel where that hole was, the filling..always gritty
And it hurts
knowing that I've written your last love poem,
because it always feels better
making a meal you can share with someone else...
but it's okay,
thank you for reading them.
The fact is - I don't know what a sunset feels like just for me.
I want to know the feeling of the sunset alone in a room,
Knowing that in this moment,
that enjoyment is just for me.
I always want to give it away.
Sleeping alone because I want to
and even though it gets cold and I can actually
still remember
the feeling of forearms around my waist
and the silent sounds of sleep.
I know the curves of my body still feel whole
without your hands rubbing them down.
And I know that it's over
because it took so long
but now when I wake up in the morning...
it's never you.
close enough to feel the sensation of sugar resting on your tongue,
salivating the sweetness but still unable to feel the chewy
satisfaction of breaking it down into a gooey stream..
The only poems I feel are made of love and heartbreak
"a walking cliche"
But I refuse to keep writing and allowing the continued ownership of my heart
by someone that doesn't want it.
I want to run on rainbows alone while piano sounds carry me through to a path of greater purpose and a stronger soul, all the while stopping to lay in all the gardens.
Getting grass stuck on my skin,
leaving lines and ridges on the surface of my legs,
tying myself in a bow
because self love can mean giving yourself a hug
because you mean it.
I do love me - I do,
filling those cavities because even though you love the taste,
an open hole in your bones, forever closing
but the feeling of swiping your tongue across the outer edges of your tooth
you'll always feel where that hole was, the filling..always gritty
And it hurts
knowing that I've written your last love poem,
because it always feels better
making a meal you can share with someone else...
but it's okay,
thank you for reading them.
The fact is - I don't know what a sunset feels like just for me.
I want to know the feeling of the sunset alone in a room,
Knowing that in this moment,
that enjoyment is just for me.
I always want to give it away.
Sleeping alone because I want to
and even though it gets cold and I can actually
still remember
the feeling of forearms around my waist
and the silent sounds of sleep.
I know the curves of my body still feel whole
without your hands rubbing them down.
And I know that it's over
because it took so long
but now when I wake up in the morning...
it's never you.
Lonely
Peace and loneliness are two different things,
but merging the two into a state of comfort, trying
to join two positive ends
of magnets
following the directions
to a place undiscovered...
thoughts written in a language
that only you can understand,
When that blank space somehow opens up,
and something that you thought was gone fills up that space
and the tightening in your chest serves as a sharp reminder
that even when something is gone
you can still feel it.
But that feeling changes when you know it won't be your present again.
So no,
you can't really feel it,
but this feeling is more than a little bit of enough
just to make you miss it.
And the longing for it just makes the blur of the memory
even fainter.
but merging the two into a state of comfort, trying
to join two positive ends
of magnets
following the directions
to a place undiscovered...
thoughts written in a language
that only you can understand,
When that blank space somehow opens up,
and something that you thought was gone fills up that space
and the tightening in your chest serves as a sharp reminder
that even when something is gone
you can still feel it.
But that feeling changes when you know it won't be your present again.
So no,
you can't really feel it,
but this feeling is more than a little bit of enough
just to make you miss it.
And the longing for it just makes the blur of the memory
even fainter.
Mary Cassatte - Jeun Fille au Jardin
Mother did my hair today and told me I looked beautiful
'mon cheri, tres de soleil'
and sometimes I do understand what she means,
when I catch the gaze of the farmhands
or even the older boy who lives down the road.
But sometimes, all I can focus on
are the little pieces of skin
hanging on the edges of my fingernails.
They derive from the pricks and pokes of the needlepoint,
these days this being one of the only activities that brings me true peace.
Even sitting in this flower bed
in my favorite powdery blue dress,
I can only be reminded of my beauty
by the reassuring words of my mother
or those male gazes.
And sometimes I do feel like a brat,
because I get to enjoy the countryside of France,
the smell of the leaves in the spring breeze,
the leisure of this needlepoint -
but still, I am just focused on my fingernails.
'mon cheri, tres de soleil'
and sometimes I do understand what she means,
when I catch the gaze of the farmhands
or even the older boy who lives down the road.
But sometimes, all I can focus on
are the little pieces of skin
hanging on the edges of my fingernails.
They derive from the pricks and pokes of the needlepoint,
these days this being one of the only activities that brings me true peace.
Even sitting in this flower bed
in my favorite powdery blue dress,
I can only be reminded of my beauty
by the reassuring words of my mother
or those male gazes.
And sometimes I do feel like a brat,
because I get to enjoy the countryside of France,
the smell of the leaves in the spring breeze,
the leisure of this needlepoint -
but still, I am just focused on my fingernails.
A Poem in Athens
I told myself that I would write a poem in Athens,
but for the life of me,
it is that when I am really struggling to do -
write a poem in Athens
I feel unworthy, like the cigarette butt
nudged between 2 corners of cobblestones
at the foot of the path to the acropolis.
I wonder if Athena knows it's there,
or did she do anything
to the chap who chose to litter
on the foot of her sacred temple,
the same temple that has protected Athens for all these years.
Or after the 100th time,
did she just give up?
How many cigarette butts
or slaps on women's asses
or racist comments
did she punish
before giving up.
Then maybe I am worthy for giving a hint of consideration
when even the locals don't seem to give a damn.
but for the life of me,
it is that when I am really struggling to do -
write a poem in Athens
I feel unworthy, like the cigarette butt
nudged between 2 corners of cobblestones
at the foot of the path to the acropolis.
I wonder if Athena knows it's there,
or did she do anything
to the chap who chose to litter
on the foot of her sacred temple,
the same temple that has protected Athens for all these years.
Or after the 100th time,
did she just give up?
How many cigarette butts
or slaps on women's asses
or racist comments
did she punish
before giving up.
Then maybe I am worthy for giving a hint of consideration
when even the locals don't seem to give a damn.
bzzzz
I despise that the swarm of gnats
in my brain only crave the
sticky
messy
sweetness of love
and that the bees in my hive
only make honey
when the queen bee feels adored
by her colony
so why can't I spin my own web
without a fly trapped inside
because I'm just as nourished by the taste of the rain
I want to weave my own quilt
but it must include the
unwanted scraps
of fabric left from my past
because right now I can't afford anything new
in my brain only crave the
sticky
messy
sweetness of love
and that the bees in my hive
only make honey
when the queen bee feels adored
by her colony
so why can't I spin my own web
without a fly trapped inside
because I'm just as nourished by the taste of the rain
I want to weave my own quilt
but it must include the
unwanted scraps
of fabric left from my past
because right now I can't afford anything new
From him
I only feel safe in spaces where I am surrounded by women.
Not once would I ever question the nature
of the woman massaging my hands so tenderly
as she coats my nails in glossy, glittery polish.
Never would it cross my mind that her questions about my life
are anything more than a friendly chit-chat
to pass the time between guests.
No, there is an unspoken trust
because in the dark we both feel it
and "it" isn't from each other - it's from him.
Not once would I ever question the nature
of the woman massaging my hands so tenderly
as she coats my nails in glossy, glittery polish.
Never would it cross my mind that her questions about my life
are anything more than a friendly chit-chat
to pass the time between guests.
No, there is an unspoken trust
because in the dark we both feel it
and "it" isn't from each other - it's from him.
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