Reflection

Crunch time is over. Now its time for some lazy, half-asleep reflections.

I sort of repeated a lot of motifs and themes in my poetry. I feel like a lot of my poems are saying the exact same thing but in different ways. I don't really mind much, because my mind has been a bit limited lately, due to the stress of this entire month. A lot of this poetry isn't good enough to amount to anything, but there is almost always a decent line, and I can always compile and rewrite to end up writing things truly good.

One of the motifs were love poems. I wrote a painfully pathetic amount of love poems, and this is why: I never wrote love poems. People always asked me to write them love poems and I could so seldom do it, especially if I was in a relationship with them. I could write unrequited love poems, but never could I write love poems because I didn't want to seem foolish. I also started out this month thinking I could use this excuse to write and post public poetry to try and regain my girlfriend's affections during a small break - usually I wouldn't admit this, but I'm sort of sick of checking my words and how I appear for saying what is the truth. I've spent a lot of my life doing that and it is a habit I need to break - I do stupid stuff, I have stupid reasoning for things, sometimes my emotions are stupid, but that's pretty okay. Sometimes its just better to take a chance - usually it hurts more, but at least its a living sort of pain. Point is, love poems were always the hardest thing to write for me. They meant taking something risky and making something permanent out of it, a reminder of something I may miss one day, and in the present moment, its proclaiming something that is scary to say. 'I love you' can be a really hard thing to say, and by stretching that out into an entire poem, well, it can be really difficult.

I also wrote un-love poems. I reflected on my past a bit this month, and I think it's because my actions and circumstances could be contemplated and reflected on in relation to my past - how to love correctly and incorrectly and all that, and also there are just a sort of process of forgiveness going on, sort of. I'm working on it, letting go and all.

I also wrote about escape a lot - it was after realizing how little I live.

I wrote a few gay-ish poems, some about race and such, but mostly I focused on pretty internal concepts - its hard to really broaden my view of things right now when all I can really absorb myself in are AP exams and my own personal convolutions, which have only recently made themselves apparent to me.

Next year, I don't think I'm going to do NaPoWriMo in April. I think I'll have to hold my own little personal one in March, or at least type up all of the poems then and just post them in April. I'll figure it out then.

Anyway, I was just glad I finished, though some of my poems were pretty lazy, but nonetheless, its better than last year, and next year will be better as well.

Well, thats it. NaPoWriMo is over. I guess this blog will be for some ramblings in my head, and other poems. I think I need to keep up a pretty regular poetry schedule so that I keep improving.

That was fun.

NaPo 30 - Letting off Steam

3 MINUTES!!!!

I've got
love for this life running
laps in my veins

rainfall in the ecosystem of my eyes -
all of my emotions just come from
too much joy; I always know its there
a few inches away, I seek it everywhere

even when I say I want to scream
cry
shriek
run

its because I love this life
in spite of my anger and tears
I am a rainforest with steam rising
to meet the sky.

__________________
YEEEEESSSSSS!!
it may say I posted this at 10:57, but my clock says I posted it at 12:00.
I have completed NaPoWriMo.

NaPo 29 - Love Poem

I never wrote love poetry
then, because you can't write
and censor the imperfections -

I had a lot of love
clasped like crunched paper
in my tight grasp.

NaPo 28 - Courage

You held my hand like a wounded bird
that didn't know it was hurt, feebly flapping
away in fear -

I remember the imaginary stares
that burned into my back and my mother's
words, but words
never sounded so sweet as they did when
you reassured me -

I remember waiting long after
the movie to kiss when the theater
was empty and how every movement
required such careful contemplation -

what political stand was I willing to make?

I hold your hand every day now, and that
bird never fully healed because its
fallen from different trees - know that when
it reaches out so timidly for you, hiding
from the hate letters in their typewriter
brains - when I managed to
take your hand it meant that much
and more - my body always means more
than just what it does, and some days
I am still in awe that I can do it -

I'm not parading my pride anymore, there
are no politics in my stride, and I am still
that timid bird with feather fingertips but
I've nested myself in the sanctuary of your grip
for those days when I feel like the world
will crush me beneath the weight of
picket signs and crumpled hate notes.

NaPo 27 - Lazy Haiku

I think of maybes
hidden in the guise: today
the night is so loud

____________________

NaPo 26 - Landscape of a body

You're like silk against my bones,
so light sometimes I can't feel you,
but all I want to do is bury my face
against your shoulder and inhale
your presence like when I was a kid and
would lie face down in the grass to experience
spring from the perspective of the blades -
you make me feel small, a starry speck in the sky
but I know I'm on fire - a romantic, tried cynic
but the glove didn't fit when all I want to do
is feel everything bared, inhale the world
because it's just so beautiful, a horizon that
needs to be remembered from the blades
of your shoulder to the wind that rushed
to clean out the dust from my broken heart
that day when I stared out over the mountains
and realized that beauty eventually makes everything
okay.

NaPo 25 - A glimpse at the past

Ohmygod I am so fantastic. I've written five poems in the last half hour. my god, I am the most amazing fucking person in the world. Fuck yes. Why do I cuss a lot when I am really fucking happy with my fucking self? I am just so fucking awesome. So is my 5-minute poetry. It sucks for regular poetry, but for 5 minute poetry, I am FANTASTIC. Oh, oh, I'm going to go pull out an old poetry journal, pick a really old, bad poem of mine, and make it awesome, like me. YES. YES. YES.

Note: I realize, my handwriting has only gotten worse as time goes on, at least when it comes to cursive. But my poetry's gotten better, so its a fair trade off.

Note 2: So even though my cursive was better then, I can't even read it. Maybe I can just really bad handwriting. The journal I was looking through was my, not last one, but one before that, so now I'm going to the one before that.

Note 3: I found that one and my very first serious Writing Journal ever!! Its full of fanfiction!! x3 Oh the memories. The pathetic, pathetic memories. The other one I found was from my ex. It smells so weird, and it has some reaaaallly bad whiney poetry. Ah, its just so fun looking back.

I remember that I used to write poetry about how angry or sad I was, so when he'd come over and try to look through it, I wouldn't let him because I was afraid he'd get upset or something.

Well, I guess that's changed - now I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve and all. I guess I sort of don't worry about it, because my emotions which get turned into poetry can't really be held accountable for what I'm actually thinking - my emotions are impulsive, but my thoughts are not. My thoughts tell me everything is going to be fine, but my emotions must get written.

I've realized something. I NEVER fill out the last few pages of my journals. Every single one basically has a few empty pages at the back. I think its because I have this issue where I think that I need to conclude it with something awesome and then I get intimidated and just leave those pages blank.

I feel the need to chronologize my Writing history through my journals. I will at a later date. Oh this is fun. This journal's smell is sort of sickening me though. I want to spray a ton of perfume on it or something, but I won't. I think that would be some sort of metaphor for sugarcoating the entire, I don't know, period of my life. Okay, I'm going to post something.

Oh look, little me was so clever.
_______________________________

Poetry

Prose
on
a
Diet
_____________________

A regular William Carlos Williams, eh? Best thing in that entire journal, and I am not kidding.

NaPo 24 - Success

Words around me ring of success, quantifiable
just as much as it is buyable, at the cost of
incomplete dreams, perfection, when all that is
real is imperfection, and all we want
is to dance down dirt roads and find truth
in the dust that makes its home on our skin, kicked up
by our sub-par moves, but we've got a rhythm
when no one is watching us, when no
pupil can carpe our diem, only
rain puddles to splash in,, rippling
funhouse mirrors

Sometimes the most success you can quantify
is how high you can jump
and I have a record of a bajillion feet.

NaPo 23 - Phony

We've all got our Jane Gallaghers;
the ones we think of when we think
of genuine -

well, sometimes we just have ourselves.

_______________________
Oh lame. Catcher in the Rye references, again. Lazy poet is lazy.

NaPo 22 - Just thoughts

Oh my god, writing poems is so easy once you're on a roll.

Jesus, what is it with me and moths?

___________________________________

Your voice claws its way up my spine
a million thoughts away and its times
like this that I think of happiness, and
my fingers that spell 'everything but' down
my temples, and how it screams
only of car motors, different State's dialects
a black endless carpet to dance along
to the farthest corners of the Earth

but it's just easier to sit here
whispers in my ear
than letting everything break loose -

running down the street screaming
the thousand screams I've kept quiet.

NaPo 21 - Delight

Lies licked my lips with silence -

I enjoyed my personal secrets, but
we all want to confess our
depravities, our
epiphanies
that creep up our spine like
caterpillars and wing away like
moths beating themselves
against the lamplight

in the glare of truth
and scorn.

NaPo 20 - Face

Take me for my imperfections, my
neurotic fingers, my brain racing
back and forth along my paranoias
like my fingertips along your skin -

I love the strangest
things, the mountain horizon
of vertebrae and the way your
face curves to meet your neck, and
the breath beneath - it's easy to love
pieces, but you're notes on a piano
put together in a symphony, synesthesia of
beauty, and your eyelashes tickle my cheeks
like stars when I hold you close enough
and I know what I mean when I think of how
there are so few faces like yours.

NaPo 19 - Sweet

Its the last day of NaPoWriMo and I'm 14 days behind. Ooh, a challenge.
__________________________________

I'm thinking of throwing clementines
at your house, instead of rocks.

The drive wouldn't be the hardest part
but rather making myself throw something
sweet your way instead of skipping the
stones you've embedded in me against your
white waters

maybe then
you'd learn to smile
with a bit of orange peel
pulling back your broken lips.

NaPo 18 - Epiphany

I don't care if I'm 15 poems behind. I'm doing this.

_____

The light rail is bad luck.

His voice crashed into my head, the city lights
burned the words into my retinas - I never
warranted the words I had embedded
like shrapnel into my skin - though
I seldom do.

Sleepers surrounded me in the 1 A.M.
voyage, but my mind awoke that night
to all the startling realities of my recent
life -

I was tired
of sleeping.

Angry poet is angry. NaPo 15, 16, 17

I am not going to fail. I don't care if I have to write crappy, short poems. This is going to happen. <.< (I've already written over 30 poems, but I want to POST 30 poems. Some of mine are unpostable, so I must continue.) I am going to kick NaPoWriMo's ass for being in April.

Angry poems!

___________________________________

Anywhere but Here


It's been a year since I've felt
the napalm time bombs under my writhing
skin, brain screeching with the same
neurotic clumsiness, tripping over my
feet with every step, thinking the floor
is falling out from underneath -

I've got moths in my brain, chewing up my
idea of home, burning holes into the photos
of everything genuine - everything is
phony,

but silence sits on my skin like shower mist,
sitting in the bathtub drained empty, my will
to fight drained empty - I need to
move

catch a plane to somewhere hot,
or cold
or sunny
or rainy
or
just anywhere but here

because the buzzing is too loud here
I don't know where to land here, there's no
pond here, I need to

wing away, fly south

but I've got heavy bones
and clipped wings, though
my skin screams for everything
away from this.
_____________________________________

Growth
My ribs don't fit right anymore, they've
shrunk and fall from my spine, pick-up sticks, my spinal
chords sound like a dirge for another me, left
in the leaves; how many skins
do I have to shed before one fits my
shifting bones?

___________________________________

Every moment is one
of preparation, contemplation,
like its as simple as crossing
the street, opening that door,
one step followed by more, a border
crossed into anonymity -

I'm just so bored.

I want to drink life from puddles
so close to death I can live, I can't
live here, where I'm drowning in
silicon - that sidewalk
across the street
isn't so far away. California
isn't so far away, or New Mexico, or
anywhere.

It's just a matter of getting off the curb.

I won't need to hear a single name to
remind me of where I've been - each
sounds like a lie, my name
could be Sylvia Plath, but without the
oven; this is not about
dying - its about living down a path
to nowhere, like a dog running from
animal control, I'm losing
control, ready to plunge into the chaos
of myself, snip the puppet strings, sever the
heart chords, smash the alignment on pavement
like that Hendrix guy -

that crash is music

and there is no music here, no voices
singing like they used to, just letters,
numbers, English class

27. a, 28. g,

36. n
37. e
38. e
39. d

40. t
41. r
42. u
43. t
44. h

I can't stand this monotony, its ticking in my
brain, run run run run run run run
run run run run
run run run run run
run run run RUN run run run RUN
RUN RUN run RUN

step.

That's the hardest part.

NaPo 14 - How to Be

April is too stressful. next year, I'm going to have a personal NaPoWriMo in March where its an actually feasible task.

A stone - a
stagnance in a storm, not
soft, but sweet - a river
pebble in the mouth, lasting
loving in the way
that only a stone can love
water caressing it so
soft
soft
soft
like whispers of words
quiet, words
without vocal chords,

so stagnantly, it
sighs
when against the desert sand.

NaPo 13 - Respect

Ohnoohnoohno I'm so behind!!

On Thursday I went to a poetry workshop during school held by Art From Ashes <3 artfromahes.org

We were given 3 minutes to write a poem describing respect with all different senses. When I shared it, people seemed pretty pleased with it. Personally, I think it's a bit cheesy, but what the hell. Here it is. XD
_________________________________________

Respect

There are lilacs in my throat from being told
I’m sacred soil to all of the right people, whose
love goes down like honey when I’m sick
of all the silence - it rings out in a clamor
of tambourines, slicing through the heavy
silence; music lifts into the sky like fire
warming my frozen hands, cold from
their frigid glares - but respect can be so
clear, colorless, sitting on my skin like
rain water dripping and sliding back
into the earth.

We’ve risen from this same soil, and when
we return, I want to be holding hands
with those that know the meaning of
respect.

NaPo 11/12 - A Bird in the Hand

After some disquiet contemplation...

Blogspot messes with the format, so here's a link to the poem.

It's actually two poems which I debated having stand alone, but they work better together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NaPo 10 - WhatisthisIdon'teven-

Needs work. I guess that with 30 poems in a month, you have to expect a few bad ones. And I've still got 20 left. This is more daunting than I originally expected.
______________________-

It just takes
half moments
half glances
half moons,
splinters in my
sides -

some days I just feel like
a book of really bad poetry
trying to be published,

written by some smaller me
just scribbling words, all
of which come out as

love me
love me
love me
please.

It’s pretty bad,

but I guess she wasn’t.

Here I am, the product of
those poems, I carved them
and they sculpted me, and

we’re all pretty
rough around the edges, smudged

from those pencil lines; I can’t read
half of these.

When I was younger, looking up
from hours of writing to adjust my eyes
to the sun, I must have blinked at a future
different from this one, crisp and clear
in my mind’s eye.

I spent a lot of time pressed into
abandoned notebooks, written
impermanently because I was so
afraid of staying where I was

I figured that one day, there would be
moments I’d want to forget -

we all want to forget, make room
in our buzzing brains; I’ve got a beehive
filled with sweet and golden beauty,
larvae,
and stingers,

poetry and
papercuts

salvation and
neglect,

a queen and
a drone,

work and
expect

work and
expect

love and
be loved -

some days I wish
that girl was gone,
that girl who wrote,
again and again,

hear me
get me
love me

like a buzzing mantra, like
oooooooom.

She’s still blinking
into a future but

written in pen.

oooooom.

NaPo 9 - Silence

Agh. I'm a poem behind. I'll fix that eventually. For now, here's this.

_______________________________________________

The minute hand should take some time,
slow down, hold
the hour hand, gentle, and
still. I don’t think it understands
just how slow it can go - like now,
in your arms, where the edge of your
shoulder is a horizon dawn
breaks upon, and I want to take the time
to savor the moment, read
the secrets spelled out in
vertebrae, trace the hours
contoured in muscle -

time sleeps here, gets lost
in itself, even though I want to
take every 60 seconds, in every
60 minutes, just to try and trace
a new word for love in your skin,
a new touch that says what I
can never say, leave it
tingling there so it can’t be
forgotten, so it can whisper
in the quietest of hours -

the solemn times when the
minute hand is just running
laps too quickly to hear the

music I want to play on your
piano rib-cage, play upon the
alignments running along your
tendons, allow the sound to
echo from so deep beneath your
lips -

it feels like music here, the acoustics
in my hazy head can ring for ages, it’s
so open, yet the only air I have
comes from your body, and I feel as though
it’s the only thing I can breathe here, I need
that rhythm,
that beat I can transcend to,
and time won’t exist there, just
collective streams of sensation
running for the ocean, tides
of beauty crashing over,

there’s so much music
in every moment,

and I want to take the time
to hear it, to sound it out
from my pounding chest
until the hand of my inner clock
realizes it just needs to
stop,

close my eyes,

and listen.

NaPo 8 - Fish

I'm tired and just got home recently, but I don't want to break my habit yet. Here's a quick one. I mostly just want to get to bed, so I won't feel so bad.

_________________________________

There’s liquid distortion
and the sound sleeps, crawls
so slow, there’s so much
water in my head; I can hear the
fish whisper bubbles, they
can be so smart, with how
they forget, and
escape the past moment
with the new one -

Meanwhile,
I’m all anchor.

NaPo 7 - Lord of the Flies

So, I don't like this one very much. I started the first draft a while ago, dropped it, and then tried to rewrite it these last few days. It feels very disjointed and angry, so I think it will need another rewrite in the near future, but for now, here it is.



http://immortality-in-words.deviantart.com/art/NaPoWriMo-7-Lord-of-the-Flies-204034930

(Also, the format gets messed up when I post it here as is, so, I'll link to it on deviantArt)

NaPo 6 - Ese Noche

I'm exhausted and writer's-block-ey. So, here's a quicky. x.x I'll fix the accents and spelling errors tomorrow.

______________________________

La memoria es tan rapido
como el tren, y estoy tratando
a perderlo.

A cucharadas, el dolor
está desapareciendo
en el cielo - el color de
olvido.

Las ventanas están
lunas, pero a veces
temo que esté en
los ojos,

y que palabras estén
dormiendo en la boca.

NaPo 5 - Drought, Finally

I was about to go to sleep, but I almost forgot my poem for the day. Looking back, it's a bit confusing... I'll fix it tomorrow. XP

___________________________________________

I could smell my childhood
in your hair, your breath, the breeze
as the lake rushed past beneath -

I’ve learned a lot of things during
this life, you can
hold on to your inner child as tight
as you please, but you’ve got to let it go
if you want to be happy. Birds are
like that, so I stopped
chasing sea gulls.

You’re never truly left by that
unforgettable piece of your memory -

it can punch and kiss you so softly.

Today, I discovered my young summer,
dazed in the crook of your neck, and
felt the child crash over me like a
wave in the smell of reeds -

(you’ve got so much music up your spine
I can hear a melody every time you breathe)

When I was young, I never believed
in droughts, because it was something
I couldn’t see, but I remember the dryness
of the desert before I reached the sea, and

thank Love it’s not too late to
dive in, hold my ear to your chest
and hear the roaring of the spirit of
my pulsing tide from a younger me -

thank Love, there will always be
moments we can never forget,

thank Love, there are droughts
just so we can refill the sea.

NaPo 4 - To The HOA

So, I posted this yesterday, but I messed up when I was trying to edit it and accidentally deleted it. So, here it is again!

_________________

I was feeling really fucking political. Sort of inspired by a restaurant I went to today, but last year, my neighborhood's HOA wanted to tear down the basketball court so the minority kids wouldn't play there anymore.

_______________________________

Acapulco, Mexico

People jump off cliffs here, and trust
the ocean to catch them.

She’s sitting in front of her house, staring
out into the streets full of people
riding in the backs of trucks, walking
barefoot down the sidewalks, and it’s
just so foreign to me, can’t imagine
a life of windows without glass, homes
without doors, and neighborhoods
without gates.

I went to dinner today to a small corner Middle Eastern
restaurant, and everyone there knew a language
I couldn’t even name; never in my life
had I felt so white, so un-tattered by reality
that I couldn’t even fathom the life
of my neighbors, of these people who
come every summer to my pool
after playing basketball at a court
that only they use - I seldom see
kids play ‘til they have no sweat left,
at least, not the ones that look like me,

but I have to turn these kids away
because they don’t have a key.

Why are we so trained by doors
that we can be so sure of who to let in
and keep out anymore? The world’s so full
of gates and all I see are plastic white fences,
black iron stakes, and none of it seems right.

Ever since I moved into those doors
those kids have been playing on that court; I’ve seen
them grow into something you wouldn’t
expect, living here, I’ve seen them grow
into people who just want to play themselves
out of poverty, but I can see your noses wrinkle
with the idea of their sweat, but I’ve seen people
revel in it, walk shirtless into the streets with it,
breathe in every cool breeze and know what it’s worth -

I’ve seen them scream into the rain, suck the Earth
into their lungs and let it out again. They breathe
the life they’re in and all I can see you do is
swallow humanity for the sake of
cleanliness, and for fuck’s sake,
who gives a fuck
about cleanliness, who gives a fuck
if they scream, and who gives a fuck
if they swear, and who gives a fuck
if they sweat onto the pavement -
it’s clear just like yours, and we’re all full of
rain drops we need to give back to the earth -

the summer’s hot, in Mexico and in the
closed, covenant community of Alton Park.

Some people can trust the ocean - there’s no fence between
those cliffs and that sea,

but sitting in that pool,
sitting in the restaurant,
sitting in that tour bus
going down the streets of Acapulco

all I can feel are walls between

them

and me.

NaPo 3 - Lunatic

I'm looking for blog affiliates. =D If you want to link to my blog and have me do the same for yours, just send me a message or a comment.

Also, I'm debating putting this in a spoken word format, so look out for that. :D

______________________________________

I want to tell you how I feel.

But I can’t.

I can’t because my vocal chords are tied into
figure-eights around me and I’m pulling myself to the
moon. I’m going where everythings so light that the ocean
drowning me in my chest will rise from my lips
like a ribbon of everything but regret -

I’m just trying to lift myself from all this,
writing garish letters and wearing them like
fucking peacock feathers, but I can’t use them
to fly. I’m playing callouses into the tips of my fingers
so they won’t know they have nothing to hold, cutting
reality into magazine bits and gluing ransom notes
for the side of me with jade-eyes;
I say I can’t find her,
but I know where she is -

she’s so far gone, she’s skipped the moon like a stone
on the lake of regret and she said she’s going to Pluto,
needs someone to cry with, someone who knows
from too many experiences how it feels to be told
she’s not a planet. She thinks I’m a fucking lunatic for
holding on to the Earth’s gravitational
pull, and I can only tell her “There are so many places,
all of the oceans - it’s just too beautiful.”

No, it doesn’t always make sense, you can’t
rhyme reason into risk and you can’t risk
rhymes and try to make it reasonable - I am so
unreasonable.

I am holding on to life-lines that don’t exist, pretending
I can push and pull the sea, I can see myself,
I can see why she’s on Pluto, burying herself
in ice and rock. It must be easier to
freeze.

Too bad there’s sometimes
that's impossible, too bad there's
just too much beauty.

NaPo 2 - (Thinking of a title, it used to be 'Whore')

This poem is partially from the perspective of a slightly younger me, and partially from the perspective of me now.

Most of all, this poem is fictional.

___________________________________

I wish I could count lovers with notches on my inner thighs
for every new hand that finds me, carve so many lines
that my body becomes an oak tree with an age
that can’t be fathomed. I wish I could be so full of
meaningless that no one could cut through me,
couldn’t find that heartwood, the remnants
of the child I used to be, and any name someone
tried to carve into my bark would be too marred
by the many nameless, placeless, faceless lines
that my body would be unreadable. Then, if only then,
it would be so easy -

but I’m all sapling, all small quivering
aspen tree, my bark blooms open in a dark array
around every, so few, names left in my body -

I am so thin-skinned. Throughout my life
I’ve only grown taller and reached my arms up
just to pray a storm wouldn’t blow though, been
too scared to plant my roots too deep because
I’ve always encountered a day where I need to
move, pluck myself from the Earth and run, run
from the names and the places and the faces
I can’t forget no matter how hard I try, but I’m
getting sick and tired of having to leave bits
of me behind, having to shed the leaves
from my limbs and run naked past other trees -
there are things I can’t erase from my body
faces
cut as deep into me as names
a darling should never say but God, there
they are, so legible in the powdery flesh
I can’t cover them up with any amount of
make-up,
stupid bitch
fucking idiot
‘woman’ spat so deep into me I can’t
shake it free, some days I wonder
if that is all I can really be, ‘woman’
thrown right into my lips that now
it sounds exactly like ‘whore’ to me -

there are days I can’t sleep
because the names are burning
in my sides, days the wires cross -
and Jesus Fucking Christ, who the Fuck
is touching me? Days like that even I
can’t find my way in to myself,
feel so detached from my hands
I want to cut them free, want to cut
the names free, but please God
make the memories leave me, I’ll pray
if you can just leave me be, God,
just cut out my eyes
so I can’t see their faces staring down
at me, God
tell me there are other things I can be, God,
if you’ve ever answered a prayer answer it here -
I can feel their roots tugging in
places, some days I feel nothing ever should,
God, I’ve been reaching up so high but
all I ever find is silence -

I can feel my roots torn loose again
prematurely pulled because they’ve
never learned to just be, can’t stare
straight into the eyes of those around me -

who would have ever thought
pain could be so holy -

so full of holes, and cracks
where a smile couldn’t
get through, and God

I have every reason
to have stopped believing in you,

but for once in my life, this
isn’t about you

this is about me, sick of
running, so sick of my leaves
leaving me because of you,
God, this is about me, no longer
reaching higher to you, no longer seeking
what I could never find, no, I’m planting my
roots here, grounding myself in whoever the
Hell I may be, whatever the Hell I may do,
whoever the Hell I may fuck, and God
I may never be able to cross out every name
but if there is one I’ll be sure to cover with
another, it will be the one
you’ve carved in me.

NaPoWriMo 1 - Firefly

I could always trust you to grasp me in your palms
just right, just enough so that you could feel that
firefly beating it’s wings beneath my chest
but give it enough room to breathe -

I can’t begin to describe what that’s worth to me,
me, a creature borne from the hands of men that
crushed fireflies in their palms just to watch
that glowing strip of gut grow dull. I can’t describe
how much it means to fan my wings, to have bulbs
in my porchlight eyes, to be held by a grasp
that does not leave me choking for my breath -

just cradle me. Cradle me intimately to your
life lines and I’ll use them to map out constellations
for days you can’t find home at home, and if the stars
guide you into my arms
tell me that will be okay. Tell me that some days
I don’t have to shine; tell me I can melt right from my eyes
some days and that you’ll be the ocean I can run into
when the waterfalls are just too steep and I’m about to
evaporate into the sky in flurries of light -

there are days I’m not at my brightest,
and times where all I can do is spell out
what I mean when my vocal chords are
too broken (I’m no cricket, I’ve never been
musical), but

believe me when I say
that when it’s midnight and time’s stopped
in the darkness, there will always be a flicker of me,
a small candlelight
waiting to take you home -

wherever that home may be.