Writing

9.26.17

Maybe it is the silence

and it’s protruding roots

that carves out heavy affliction in a yearning soul

with the death of something good.

Equations of time placed in deep pits,

pressurized by gentle grasps burned into touch memory

where the deafening quiet

drowns ambition in a pool of its own blood.

 

Glazed lenses over protracted pupils

mock the possibility of sound infused moments

while hushed fingers pick at marred cuticles

and lust for skin that was never theirs.

A forever gesture of goodnight

that glimmers frozen in the lip’s upper righthand corner

even when the recipient diverts the embrace

with no voice.

 

Now only a reflection of the missing organs sprawled

under the microscope of speechless heartache

with no tongue

to orally calm the distressed lacerations.

So until the Father chimes his clock

and the crisp youth putrefies under his clamor,

the muteness of broken boundaries

will unchangingly ring out in woeful solitude.

 

9.16.17

got things

    to say

but they don’t 

  quite

        make it out

    stuck

between soft palate and crooked wisdom teeth.

gotta get out

                   secrets

       coca-cola dreams

pinched

    like a curl around your finger

 wall to floor windows

          for views

            warped from the world.

got lies

  crammed under boots

  squashed roaches with antennae still slightly pulsing

locked

   tied to–

–gether

          twisted cherry stems

   intertwined

with albums of 

         horror movie soundtracks

                 curious 

about ends.

got roots

    in place of words

   repeated images

             singing tunes

with no audience

       but the stomach lining and bile

   swirling

    to applaud

fearing

          the whispers of above

      glass always (looking) empty

overflowing with

                         silence

   feels like

screaming

    but all that comes out

  is–


9.15.17
I got lasers out my hips, StarBoy

Paintin’ with needles

Pointy tip first

A skilled swordsman who crafts only in red ink.

 

The oceans in my tongue

So StarBoy gotta lick it out

Lappin’ like a dog

Mama told him to go home but he came to me instead.

 

My soul is groovy

Bell bottoms and tie-dye pantones on my walls

Ain’t got a place though

Just me who don’t sleep and a city high on dreams.

 

A cactus in a row of weeds

StarBoy bound to get stuck

My fingers give out shots

A taste of me and you got yourself an electric sugar rush.

 

StarBoy sittin’ rows behind me

But I got eyes for pores

Shoot like bullets

And he’s the red center of my dart board.

 

I got more colors in me than skittles

Ya dig?

 

I piss sunshine and fuck like I’m gold minin’

StarBoy just along for the ride

Man bun ringlets runnin free

Zoom zoom we flyin.

 

I breathe in bubbles and exhale exhaust

So StarBoy got black lungs

Told me he can’t see

He done spun outta control.

 

I’m a rainstorm on a good day

But StarBoy got places to be

Sipped from my holy water

Stained the glass windows cracked on my thighs.

 

My time is sacred

And he done stamped on my skin

Read receipts my ass

StarBoy ain’t got no right runnin’ from me.

 

I got lasers out my hips!

And lightening between my toes!

Goodbyes don’t speak my language

So I wrote them and StarBoy out my book.

 

A MAP TO SEPTEMBER 7TH AT 9:53PM. 9.9.17

First take a left into a cacophony of silence

blinded by care

and tasting of yesterday’s promises.

Second, the third exit of a roundabout in a field of 35mm dreams

and sweet nothings.

Then stay straight for a while.

Pass signs of three states,

curly hair crossings,

and warnings of pinky swears.

It will then storm as you get onto an eleven month bridge

and tears will lick and lap under the wheels,

so prepare for damp socks and eye leaks.

The thunder will linger as you speed through tolls you shouldn’t of paid for.

Camera flashes break up vision of the pavement,

so smile for the lens of once in a lifetime memories half of you will think are moving too fast.

Soon on the right will be a gravel road with rocks of anxiety attacks and stones of identity chaos.

With no street lamps to light the way,

the end of the path will reveal a hole in the ground full of famous art and cheese quesadillas.

First level, down the hall, second door on the left:

that is where you must end.

There will be no more directions after you sit down on that bench.

On that bench.

That bench.

That bench.

Surrounded by cliches and purple pillows.

Haunted by simple sighs and gentle words of past forehead kisses.

But now each touch of your skin burns through all it comes in contact with

and soon the room goes up in flames

and I am alone,

burning with our beautiful map etched across my heart with the ashes of your name.


WILL YOU READ THIS? 9.5.17

Exit 4B makes appearances in my dreams,

but then I’ll wake up and forget.

I don’t have highways where I am.

No gas pedal to bend back under the weight of a black boot.

I could pull you out though.

One puff and cigarette filled lungs are tinted with your initial.

It hasn’t been long enough for dust yet,

But the color green still eats at a photo in a locket I have burnt onto my chest.

Are you reminded of me by the way a song sounds or the words the artist screams?

I never put you in either group.

Floating above the rest of the world, we linger but never see eye to eye.

Thought we had someday and forever all figured out.

I wonder if your freckles still map out the same big plans your fake leather jacket used to protect.

Do traces of me follow you around?

I’ve hid you on the top shelf of my closet,

but sometimes you fall and I am left in a ball of the floor

picking up the pieces of fragmented time and the gravel of the roads we used to roam.


8.2.17 

When I say I burn

I mean it.

I’ll sit in the sun for three and a half minutes and my skin will itch for six days.

If I make to five minutes without spontaneously combusting,

I will turn from tomato to eggplant and will be purple for two weeks.

No one ever believes me until they see it and then they realize:

“Shit, she wasn’t lying.”

So apparently seeing is believing.

But children invest an endless faith in a made up fat man in a red coat

while they disregard their friends and teachers and parents support they see everyday.

When you stand for the pledge of allegiance,

you aren’t seeing the troops away at war or at sea,

you just trust and respect without any question.

I’m really not sure why people only trust their eyesight

because it shouldn’t take a bullet to your own innocent child in a hoodie.

You should realize gun violence is problem in your country

when just ANYONE’S baby or brother or mother or aunt gets hurt.

That man on the TV says sexism isn’t real

because no one tells him what to wear or say or do.

Ironically, he wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for a woman he refuses to defend.

If someone says they can’t swim, you don’t throw them off a boat or into the deep end of a pool to see if they are telling the truth.

If someone tells their waiter that they have an allergy, they won’t be tested and fed the very thing that sends them into anaphylactic shock.

People send chain emails for good luck

and put their lives in the hands of an invisible, divine, white man that lives in the sky above.

Hallelujah!

Amen!

You spend thousands of dollars on vacation to relax,

but relaxation can’t be touched or seen because it’s a feeling.

So really true love isn’t true unless a diamond is involved

and anxiety is a hoax until you are suicidal

and my best friend can’t say she is healthy until she gets a six pack.

Or eight pack.

And runs seven or fifteen miles a day

so she is no longer my best friend, but the loving memory of one.

America the beautiful.

American the goddamn free.

We pray that materialism, capitalism, racism and sexism rain upon thee,

so that we only see to believe.

Let’s change our name to the Land of the Selfish Bastards Incorporated

and make it mandatory for everyone to post on Instagram everyday to prove they are living!

But I guess white, rich families whose sons are always SEEN smoking pot wouldn’t like this system because their precious Steven would have to be thrown in jail just like the black boys were for the color of their skin.

We have learned to trust our eyes before our hearts.

Human life is considered unfair and unforgiving because we see what could be in our pockets instead of who is by our side.

How can a species be so obsessed with sight, yet be so afraid of death?

When someone has cancer, you see its effects.

When someone gets older, they age.

When someone gets hurt, they bleed.

Death is so apparent and obvious,

yet we take every possible opportunity to escape the only thing that we can really foresee.

The only thing I like about how easily I burn

is that I peel.

My skin sheds right off and a new layer forms.

Though everyone can see the dead skin fall away, only I know of the second chance underneath.

I don’t see the rebirth in order to feel it.

 

7.24.17

People like to tell me that I’m clean.

And I agree with them.

In high school I had a friend who I only hung out with so I could clean her room.

I think about that a lot.

Not her, of course, but her room

and the complete satisfaction I got

in my heart and gut and soul

when you could not only see the carpet beneath you,

but know exactly where any book was because they we stacked in alphabetical order.

People like to tell me that I’m organized.

And I agree with them.

Each art supply is arranged in rainbow order

ROY G BIV.

Each sock has a pair and are piled by thickness.

Even my underwear is divided into cheeky or thong

and I don’t leave the house until everything is in its place.

People like to tell me that I’m a hard worker.

And I agree with them.

I have a notebook dedicated to the lists of things I must do each day

as well as a daily planner and two calendars hanging on my wall.

A blank date or page is a waste and a weakness

so I don’t stop moving until each task can be crossed off

with its corresponding colored pen.

People like to tell me that I’m self aware.

And I agree with them.

I don’t count calories,

but I do count coins I find on the street as well as each dollar spent

until I am not spending anything and gaining everything,

but definitely not weight because I’d have to buy food for that.

People like to tell me that I am put together.

And I really disagree with them.

My mind runs in seven directions ripping me so far apart that all I see is red.

Thoughts slip as easily as light through the trees on a bright afternoon, but stay trapped.

On repeat.

On repeat.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I try to pick them out like ticks

but I am stuck in a continuous game of claw

trying to grab something but missing each intrusion.

People like to tell me that I’m strong.

But I’m just really good at hiding it.

I don’t ask for help

and I find it funny that people think that because I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.

Last night I couldn’t have sex with my boyfriend

until I did the dishes, put them away, and made sure the door was locked three times.

I can’t answer the phone at work until it rings twice first.

I don’t pee unless I clean the toilet before and after going.

I don’t sleep until each red notification on my cellphone is gone.

I don’t take my shoes off until I know the floor isn’t dirty.

I don’t live anywhere but my mind

which is on overdrive 27/7.

My tendencies are not impressive.

They are obsessive.

They hurt.

I am not ambitious.

I am just surviving.

 

SURVIVAL 6.8.17

I could of went back to the ocean divine,

but I chose to stay and swim.

Inside me the inexperienced surgeon,

an uncontrollable operation game gone wrong,

so the voice and the smell and the peace of the water sang me quite a sweet song.

To stand on the edge of a borrowed breath,

conjuring fragments of deja vu,

we must learn to soak in the waves of this rented existence that crash and fall upon you.

 

A SPOKEN WORD POEM WRITTEN TO BE SCREAMED 6.7.17

I get out of work at 6:03pm,

approximately 63 minutes past my scheduled end of shift.

I’m wearing all black,

reeking of movie theatre popcorn and toilet bowl cleaner.

It’s not my first day in the city,

but my mother’s worries of me walking alone still pang in my head.

So despite the time of day,

I keep my head low

since that’s where it’s supposed to be.

Though the skyscrapers sing for my attention above me,

I glue my eyes to the dirty sidewalk under my feet

because he waits on the corner of twelfth.

Joe, lets say.

Even with my head bowed the presence of his undeniable gaze rips open my full buttoned collared shirt.

So I cross.

But then it’s the homeless man on the opposite corner.

Charlie.

Who whispers such vile words they turn into snakes that slither into the pores of my skin and flick their tongues across every hair follicle.

So I run.

But then it’s Chris or Jack or Michael or Nick

in the suit with his hair slicked back who steps out in front of me.

And he touches.

He touches.

He touches my shoulder.

See, in my experience, men only think with one head at a time

and my body is a hunting ground,

the landing pad for their pointed arrow.

I’m just a hole with a face,

a blow up play toy on the fake sands of their beaches,

a disposable camera that shoots out blurry images of one night excursions.

I’ve never owned my body.

A firm hand has always had control

and it wasn’t my Mothers.

Because this hand sits firmly across my chest and presses into the smooth inner workings of my thighs

without a knock,

an invite,

a greeting

or goddamn permission slip.

Don’t call me a work of art

because though I am stared at and fondled,

I am not molded with care

or valued for anything deeper than the visual stimulation I can supply.

But then,

he came.

Softly.

A kind spirit, passionate soul, warm hearted breath of life.

Any cheesey adjective you can think of,

my angel fallen from grace above.

So I sang glory to God,

But, heaven forgive me,

I remembered that that book, that love was written, manifested, consumed by the very masculinity that ruined me before.

Your precious scripture is tainted by a man’s pen using the ink of my blood,

so how am I supposed to love?

What is the difference

when I wear a turtleneck made from the hands of white men, black men, brown, yellow,

all choking

and drowning me in the blue, green, brown, black, hazel eyes of their pain.

A manipulated puppet of all colors, all freckles, all sizes and curls.

So how can I really trust any hand,

when I am already bruised and battered from the ones before his that left my body a site of scars?

 

5.25.17

I’m floating

I’m falling

I’m drowning

I’m longing.

For the curls

The sweet surrender

That he unfurls.

Sunrise

Sunset

Through the rain

You can bet.

A key that opens

any lock

A clean

A dirty

a mixed matched sock.

The moon

The stars

All may swoon.

But my hands

with all their might

I swear will be

His biggest fans.

 

5.22.17

Goodbyes are not forevers.

The glass is always somewhat full of air

and no matter how far you drive away,

the person in the rear view mirror will only continue shrinking.

Goodbyes are not forevers.

The ink injected into your skin isn’t really permanently apart of you

and time will always be a human construct.

Goodbyes are not forevers.

The world is so much smaller than we give it credit for,

so souls of all colors float along and mix in the painting of our lives.

Goodbyes are not forevers.

A wave is also a gesture of greeting

and wet connections of flesh are movements that linger

even when the actions calms.

 

SEMBLANCE

You’ve fucked it, friend.

This circle of pain you’ve embedded in yourself

with thoughts you can’t seem to comprehend

Placing your hope on too high of a shelf.

 

Hiding in your sleep,

but the ache pounds behind closed eyes.

Looks like you need a full house sweep.

No villian ever seems to compromise.

 

As you stand there in the middle of a field like a lightening rod,

no on has the slightest clue.

You know their heart has not yet healed

when they shout: “failure is a bruise not a tattoo!”

 

NOTIONS OF TEARS 4.23.17

Pour me another glass.

I can take all your pain.

The boundaries and walls I’ve created you easily surpass,

so just fill me up through every vein.

 

The constant stream of hot water

just enough to burn the top of your head,

but not enough for a decision of manslaughter,

hides the pain filled packages that you shed.

 

Heavy moments of heated emotion causes a wet reaction.

Pressing pink flesh chapped with grief

acts only as a defensive distraction

or a reminder of the commander in chief.

In front of you, the heart-breaking thief.

 

4.7.17

Someone came into my favorite book

and ripped out an entire chapter.

Flushed it down the toilet,

a fairy tale for the fishes.

 

Doctor’s office cat posters don’t warn you

about the lonely side effects

not eating your vegetables can bare.

Who knew the absence of a greenbean

could make such an impact.

 

The captain must go down with the ship

and the loser of the match still has to shake hands.

So the breaker must sleep alone,

trapped under a quilt of his smell.

 

She worshipped the idea of love,

not a sacred book of pendent on a chain.

It was safe, but she didn’t realize

what you idealize you become.

 

4.3.17

Girl, get a grip.

No one makes you let go of your see through glossy gifts.

Your presence is made to be put on a pedestal

of gold

eternal in all its being.

Girl, pull yourself together.

There are beach parties, weddings, rock concerts, political protests, hords of elephants in your heart.

A performance going on right now,

sold out for the next three months.

Focus on your art, girl.

Spew your colorful mind on every blank page you see.

Take advantage of the empty music room

or dance space

and stay for fifteen minutes

or three hours and create.

Do what you are made for, girl.

The weight on your shoulders is just a backpack of notes,

poems,

drawings.

The loss of a boy is not a loss,

but an open field and cleared schedule,

where only opportunity and freedom wait.

Stand up, girl.

Endurance and raging passion drives you,

not the grasp of a Y chromosome.

Because that nose ring is a distraction

not an asset.

Your hands move faster when they don’t have to hold another.

You are strong, girl.

Enough on your own,

a historical site,

a priceless medallion,

the sun in the goddamn sky.

Rise up, girl.

Rise up to where you belong.

 

3.28.17
I love having art on my socks.
Summer and winter, around the clock.
The works add value to my balance of zero,
making my clumsy feet now a historical hero.

Ms. Lisa on my heels.
The screaming man also kneels,
with a starry night poking out of my boots
and water lillies nesting at my body’s roots.

Immaturity and my child-like face
disappear at this new artistic pace.
My bumpy beauty is a liar,
but the golden couple’s kiss causes it to expire!!

I am now eternally priceless,
thanks to two pointed fingers in all their righteousness.
A gentil green dancer bows gracefully, even as I walk on jagged rocks.
Oh how I love being more than I am, when I have famous art on my socks.

 

3.27.17
We can’t escape the roaches!
We can’t escape the roaches!
You can run,
you can hide,
try harder then fail or succeed.
You can eat more or less,
you don’t have to vote
or take thousands of pictures.
You can save your money
or give it to the homeless,
but no matter what you have to remember:
you can’t escape the roaches!
As long as your feet are feet
and gravity still works,
the roaches will come
and you can’t do anything about it.
Even your mother knows it
and your sister and your brother.
We can’t escape the roaches!
Hang your leg over the bed
and the monsters will come.
Elect a cheeto as president
and walls will go up.
Drink coffee before bedtime
and you’ll never see your eyelids.
It’s common sense to all who realize:
We can’t escape the roaches!!

 

3.26.17
So sad today
stepped in a puddle
yet the sun is shining quite bright.
So sad today
missed my alarm too
though my phone was charging all night.
So sad today
looked in the mirror
wasn’t sure what I saw was right.
So sad today
stared at a blank page
couldn’t find any ideas to take flight.
So sad today
stubbed my toe,
but the desk definitely wasn’t out of sight.
So sad today
burnt my skin,
though the showers hot water gave a bit of delight.
So sad today
screamed at a friend
just wanting for a fight to ignite.
So sad today
gave up on a poem
I guess I’m too lazy to write.
So sad today
posted a photo
to hide my destructive insight.
So sad today
held my eyes open
way past the chime of midnight.
So sad today
froze up in class,
though my temperature hit 101 degrees fahrenheit.
So sad today
bottled my feelings
hidden deep down and watertight.
So sad today.
So stressed today.
So anxious today.
So tired today.
So sad today,
in hindsight
and moonlight.
No appetite
or foresight
or copyright
with frostbite.
An impolite
playwright
in the twilight
who is just oh so sad tonight.

 

3.23.17

There is a point within chaos

where the room becomes silent

and those with the biggest mouths, the closest sirens and the loudest barks, cease.

The nothing is safe.

A hidden bunker, a glazed over eye, a paused screen.

Not even the strongest intellectuals can think there.

It’s fuzzy, not frozen, but small movements,

flurries of staccato jumps in a twitching dance with no sound.

There is no need for emotions or concentration.

The neutral is still

and though a rowdy crowd bangs feverishly on its front door,

the dormant hears no knock.

3.8.17

The smell hot glue guns remind me of my mother,
and it’s funny how dust particles dance in the sunlight,

especially on the seventh floor of a city building,
so beautifully vulnerable
as I watch, pick out all the peach jelly beans and miss my mother.
Some tears float so freely off people’s faces,
filled with every tender touch and screamed lesson,
they heavily slide gracefully down a cheek,
a package of humanity, 
 silly thing to compare,
yet I still think the green eyes take the cake as I wipe away brown eye droplets and think of what my mother would say.
I’ll walk across subway grates
to make myself feel a little taller
especially when my nose is stuffed
and the cheerio to chocolate milk ratio is off in my cereal.
Or when the tea I make tastes like dirty water compared to the memory of my own bed
and the sizzling sweetness and spice in a cup of my mothers.
There is safety in the constant noise of a city.
The pat of every step and constant whirling of sirens,
along with snippets of strangers conversations block out the thoughts that silence brings.
Including but not limited to
self destruction
and missing my mother.
Every essay I write has no end,
only a means towards an end.
Maybe because there is always so much more to say,
or do or seek or find.
It is scary to think about endings
and yet time is fleeting with each word I write and you read,
so maybe my essays never really include a concluding paragraph
because missing my mother is holding onto something
I am scared to let go of
and begin an ending.

 

2.23.17

There are three sides to a triangle,

not four

or one

or ten.

Coats keep you warm

and the sky stays up in the sky.

A needle may pinch,

but it is not the burning of the sun.

A stuffy nose is a pain,

but the sky isn’t falling.

Don’t compare your triangle to my octagon

when one has obviously more sides.

Can’t you count?

Are you blind?

Stop feeding into your pathetic thoughts,

take a shot to the stomach,

twice a day.

Have a blood clot,

maybe some cancer.

Not a cold

or a check up,

but cancer.

Not a triangle,

but an octagon.

 

2.16.17

I guess I’ll be my own poem
while you start a brand new script,
I guess I’ll sing my own song
since your attention recently flipped.
I guess I’ll call myself now
when you forget your phone,
I guess I’ll sleep alone again
as you sit happily on your thrown.
I guess I’ll give myself gifts
and I’m sure I’ll stand my ground,
as you revel in your manliness
I guess I’ll run around.
You can fly,
but I will stay
and buy my own bouquet,
so when you stutter
and see the loss
I’ll say no sir, I am not your charity toss.
I am my own poem
I am my own goal
he’ll only be a half
while I, having me, will always be a whole.

2.2.17
You are my peach,
you were my plum,
you are my apple
you were my sun.
The road was narrow,
the road is long,
the road was flooded,
the road is gone.

1.6.17

heat.
a flash of it.
then another.
and another.
soon a fire.
burning.
in my hands.
through my fingertips.
exploding vessels.
catching flames.
steam.
smoke.
building.
covering.
sucking the oxygen.
laughing.
cackling.
at me.
then flares.
outbursts.
but with no air.
silent screams.
begging.
until the end.
the close.
and then.
only red.

1.3.17
There are few things inside me that I’d like to get out.
the stigmatism, the voices and maybe the leaky spout.
I’d like to remove each particle of fat,
from my belly
and my arms
and thighs, well actually save that.
Get rid of expectations
every speculation
and each embarrassing fixation.
Throw out the worries and the fears,
the ache,
including the stomach,
the pimpled skin,
and even both ears.
My broken heart is quite useless,
so is my liver,
for I’m afraid they’ve both suffered enough from a tasty, liquid, fantasy giver.
Pick out every strip of my hair,
incase it turns grey,
infact, take out all my proteins too
so I can start just fading away.
Leave behind the passion,
my drive,
my creativity and funky sense of fashion.
You see I don’t need my personality to thrive,
especially in this time of an intolerant, ignorant misogynistic power drive.
Clean out my insides
then touch up my outsides,
cut out the cavity in my chest where my soul hides.
Scoop out
and scrap out
and leave me hollow as hell,
until I sit out
and rot out
and I’m just an empty shell.

SIX WORD STORIES

Just be happy, they hate that.

 

Together so tightly we exchanged histories.

12.29.16
1 tucked in my bed is less peaceful than I wanted
the blankets are twisted
each pillow reeks of past times of rest
and each stuffed animal stares too longingly. 
2 on the couch is lonelier than I expected
the AC is quite loud
my feet keep sinking into the cracks between the cushions
and the shadows on the walls creep closer every second.
3 in the downstairs bathroom is colder than I remember
the tile stings my toes
water from the faucet muffles the haunting whimpers
and the mirror is tainted with faces I’ve never seen before.
4 sprawled on the kitchen floor hurts more than I thought
the house above seems to sway
a humming refrigerator mocks my tired lungs
and the only light swings across me as sporadic cars zoom by. 
5 comes quicker than I imagine
pacing empty hallways burns into my muscle memory.
6 overflows from the windows slower than before
sitting still on the middle step may cause invisibility.
7 hits like a rock on a windshield
I squeeze my bloodshot eyes
goodmorning and goodnight

 

11.14.17

He hits me.

The sunrise in early mornings with pink undertones,

wraps its arms around each building,

slowly kissing across my skin warming my bones.

He hits me.

Music blasting in small, sweaty pubs,

beating through my blood and heart,

sending me dancing into the night until heels are turned to nubs.

He hits me.

Freshly cut grass on a calm midsummer day

enters and fills each of my lungs

and as I smile a sigh, my soul grows

into a flowery archway.

He hits me.

Watching a firefly light with a beautiful rhythm

in the hand of a child with a tightly sealed jar,

then let loose and freed from its inferior position.

He hits me.

Chanting and roaring at a peaceful protest,

my raging beliefs soar into the sky,

spinning the clouds into images that each of my words and freedoms expressed.

He hits me,

like the sun on my face,

music in my ears,

the smell of sweet grass I could never replace.

He hits me.

His eyes and his smells,

his gaze and his humor is where I do dwell.

He hits me.

It is like this,

that he hits me.

 

11.8.16

The beach has always been more beautiful than the mountains.

The rolling hills and jagged rocks reek of flaws, immobility and harshness.

The beach is flat, but ever changing.

It’s rough sandy complexion reveals its strength and flexibility.

No one goes for long walks on a mountain.

People flock to the beaches.

To the warmth,

to the gentle dunes and movement of the water.

They lay, comfortably, taking in the salt air.

A mountain may share some of these qualities.

It may have the potential,

but only potential.

No one can see past its uneven, unsmooth, unappealing outside.

No one dares to see the hidden beauty,

when the beach is next door.

Maybe it needs to lose some weight.

 

9.24.16

Every breath we drew sang hallelujah,

but now the space between us is fogging up my lungs

and I can no longer hear your beautiful tune.

So all of a sudden as I was humming to myself,

someone new came along

and began to whisper a sweet harmony

and now I’m beginning to feel whole again.

He didn’t steal your song, he made his own.

I want to dance to every lyric and move to every beat,

but everytime I play his I have to pause yours.

Our melodies no longer match,

yet I still adore our sound.

My heart has become a concert battleground for past and present compositions,

each one fighting for the attention of my ears,

and it is up to me to decide whose notes match

my newly found voice.

 

9.12.16

The space between

where I am

and

where I want to be

is a lifetime

of beautiful baby steps

I am willing to take

and deep plummets

I am prepared to fall through.

 

9.5.16

The only infinity

he will ever need

propels and rushes

through every vessel

every hair

every tear

in a frenzied chaos of beautiful atoms

that join forces

creating a masterpiece of her.

 

9.1.16

Nameless,

I sink into the crowd.

The cream of my skin

melts into the background,

unseasoned and bland,

just like those next to,

across from,

in front of and behind me.

Cookie cutter dolls,

found on any shelf.

Peel back the layers,

open my wounds,

turn my pages,

peek under my glossy lids.

See the passion,

feel the pain,

read my story,

know my name.

 

THE FIRE- included in the Burning Coal Kidswrite Festival

PDF: the-fire

Event: http://burningcoal.org/kidswrite-performance-festival/

Interview on WHUP Lights Up radio show: https://whupfm.org/episode/lights-up-51116-permanent-archive/

 

THINK WIDE OPEN

Heads down, snoring brains

Working out their thumbs

The light reflects in their eyes when a message comes

 

Competition of the likes

Who will have the most

Constant scrolling and cyber life will be our lethal dose

 

Staring at a moving screen

Have you seen the latest one?

Though you may hit delete it can never be undone

 

Buzzing pockets, ringing ears

Be sure to like my post

“Laughing out loud”, yet resembling a young but faded ghost

 

Look at and talk to me

Put down your talking box

My spoken words are what your keyboard mocks

 

Live in this moment

Not in last night’s picture

No one planned for this controlling device to replace your precious scripture

 

Pull up your head

Look me in the eyes

Open your mouth and speak with me before our connection dies

 

Learn through experience

Listen to your fellow peers

Gain knowledge through the conversations you will have throughout your years

 

Determine your goals

Follow them in your own stride

Communication gives way more than any Wiki-Link could provide

 

Open your arms and mind

Allow any thought to enter

Acknowledge no bias of the color, background or religion of the presenter

 

The world needs do-ers

All people need your support

Not tweets of prayers or idle posts just to be a good sport

 

Use technology for good

Call those who you may miss

But remember actions are worth ten thousand words though they may be filled with bliss

 

Speak your mind aloud

Share your many opinions

Yet be mindful of conflicting ideas that may come from other dominions

 

Take in all you can

Admire all things even if they are broken

For it is your human nature to keep your mind wide open

 

TWELVE – published in The Enloe High School Literary Organization’s Stone Soup Magazine

I have no ideas

No time management

No motivation

No thoughts or creativity or interpretation.

I have no desire or reason

No interest

Or impulse

This seems to be the dry season.

For four years they pound

Be unique

Be thoughtful and bold

Be crafty and organized

Yet well rounded and athletic

But artsy and friendly

And just overflow your threshold.

So now, when the time is here

To plan

To write and apply and pursue,

I am empty and just a lifeless puppeteer.

 

LIVESTRONG

I came in the night, laying my hand on a random house as I usually do. There are no reasons for my arrival, I just come and go as I please, taking my gifts along with me. I remain invisible to most, for lurking in the shadows is my specialty. Thriving in darkness, I control the somber abyss. No soul dares to look at me; I flourish in their cringes of fear. Yet there is one I remember, who not only glimpsed into my empty sockets and pushed away my greedy hands, but commanded my power to become a small side effect compared to its usual almighty dominance.

The house I had chosen this specific evening was quite small and plain, yet filled to the brim with memories, and so I decided to give it another story worth remembering. She was bold and passionate, with eyes like swirling blue marbles. She had only seventeen years to her name, but I wanted her, I needed her to be mine, so I slivered into her room. I do not always plan my magic and so the trick up my sleeve that night just happened to be an ailment. Her transformation morphed very slowly and simply. I directed the bright yellow, cheery walls of the house to fade and the lights to dim to a slight glow. It was as if the sickness was eating away at the surroundings as well as my pretty one. I used silence as my tool; no song or sweet words could break the muteness. Her room was my black hole, my kingdom, and the door was kept shut so she couldn’t escape. Yet when she attempted to carry herself to a different space, I moved through the walls with her and made the world spin, until she would come crashing to the floor. The sword is a warrior’s weapon, but I used weakness, which is sharper than any blade. She was my battery and I was draining her light.

She could barely walk or talk or breathe. She was transferring over to my side, piece by piece, everyday. Her ocean eyes were half closed to her world; she was becoming my new pet, my new gift, my new beauty. Her family moved her to a hospital, but I knew no bag of fluid, IV medication or nurse’s care could tackle the malady that was festering inside of her.  I was winning and blossoming in my ways. Her corrosion was my crowning. Then, while I was envying my prize late at night as she laid enclosed in her colossal hospital bed, she opened her eyes. As she looked up into the corner of the pitch black room, where I happened to be lounging, pain seemed to radiate off of her. Her oxygen tube wriggled under her nose as she spoke:

“You cannot have me.”

I was slightly confused at her murmur. Was this a prayer? Was she dreaming? Was there someone in the room I did not see? I stared back at her puzzled, continuing to loom in my dark corner. Yet, she stared right back and repeated:

“You cannot have me.”

She was speaking to me. Her agony stricken face seemed to glow and her piercing blue eyes burned right through me. The machines she was hooked up to began to squeal and howl. Her heart and lungs were quickening their pace. I felt furious and mortified all at once. I glided along the ceiling until I was hovering right above her, breathing my thick, pasty air down onto her. But it was no use, the room which used to be slate black, was now gleaming with a light I had never seen before. Its reddish tint was illuminating from her. She seemed to gleam and emit a flame as she gently smiled and whispered one last time:

“You cannot have me.”

Her influence over my thieving, ominous ways, revealed to me my own cruelty. I am like an inexperienced surgeon, pulling and picking at your insides. I play an uncontrollable operation game gone wrong. Fear and stress rocket through your veins and tug at your sanity. I steal your light and blur your vision. Looking at your reflection you see a ghost, with lips as pale as an old moon and deep craters of darkness beneath its eyes. Pain plastered across its face. Its sagging skin is screaming, begging for a better day. A better day that seems like a magical fairy tale compared to the horrors you feel inside of you. A better day that is closer than you think because if you stare long enough into that reflection, glancing past the rugged outside and battered edges, you’ll find my mortal enemy. It is a fire. Though very small and only slightly glowing, it will burn forever. No trauma or grief or illness can put out your fire; it is filled with compassion and determination. I am a thieving magician, blinding you with tricks of despair and hypnotizing you into a dark world with no hope. She found her fire and pushed through the facades and fearscapes. I, Death, make your breathing scarce, but the fire makes it meaningful.

When she was only seventeen years old, she saw Death. When I, ancient and set in my ways, looked back at her, I saw strength. It was a blurry image at first, but it became clearer as time passed—it was barely breathing, with only skin clinging to bone—then it began to convert into a young woman, a woman with eyes like swirling blue marbles, who has two small scars that remind her of the time where death was her companion.

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