"Dear Diary" I wrote at the top of the page. I've turned to these wretched pages because I have no one else to turn to.
I have been wanting to runaway for sometime now. I have an estranged sense of nostalgia towards places I haven't even been to.
Did you know that you shattered my heart? That a shard of organ lacerated my ribcage? & so I've concluded...
That perhaps one day, when I'm 22, I will cut my hair short and runaway to new york and try to find a big sweet apple they've always talked about.
I will disregard my birth name and I will end up tell everyone I meet that my name is Aphrodite, but I am not greek nor am I a lover. I'll write poetry. The good poetry and the bad poetry. I'll write poetry the way you left me, blank eyed and confusing. And if I fall in love again, let him be just like you.
Laugh as sentimental as 100yr old harpist.
Smile as transfixing as a dim star, on a moonless night
Eye's as beautiful as the sun..
But just as the sun, I never could stare to long.
Sitting by the window of an unfriendly room,
baffled voices surround an unquenchable core.
Digging my nails into flesh on my wrist,
I crack both big toes.
All the while, your limbs travel my inner eye lids.
Something simple as a blade of grass,
complex as The Birth of Venus cracking the surface of the sea.
Strings lace the cortex of my mind,
until all that remains are two puppets;
metal spokes force your eyes
to exonerate mine.
Punctuating the night
Pervading the ether
Time & space entire
Bled with a permanence
So still it sticks to their sides now
Queer ants teeming here
Upon purulent pear trees
Dinosauria and prurient, we
Deathless slivers slithered off
Count Cockula ornaments
And neural birth conduits
On the news telecast in snowy static
We are but monkeys orbiting through milky ways in designer clothes
Marrow sucking spacemen scouring dusty planets of unharnessed apple core energies for the taking
We are all half-remembered trinities of spiraling saints in incurable agony
Screaming trumpets dropped from the forth floor balcony last night
Come to scare the Sunday birds at first light
Is there anything that truly lives forever?
Is it love, happiness, wisdom?
Life & peace?
No sir, not even these.
We all must accept,
that to which has a beginning
must have an end.
For love can not spring,
until we experience hate.
Happiness can not flourish,
unless someone knows sorrow.
Wisdom cannot be attained,
untill one has seen his own mistakes.
Life can not exist,
withought a birth from a mother.
And peace can not manifest itself,
until one experiences war.
So to must everything have a beginning
and an end.
But with what may die,
ought to give life to the next.
Soaking in old family photos
while submerged in Georgia rains,
I become lost in the darkest depths
of the black and white remains.
I am vicariously transported
to one hundred memories past,
Silent voices call me to follow
through my families complex caste.
One a Dutch indentured servant
who became of man of local wealth,
Another a circuit ridin' preacher
Spread the gospel, paid with fox pelts.
A sad eyed woman stares intently
wanting to share privately with me,
Our painful bond of child birth and death
Whispers~ time never sets one free.
Soaking in old family photos
Submerged in joy and pain
Taken to the darkest depths
of pouring Georgia rains.
Look at your spider legs
clambering out like that
as though your crab cage
has stayed too still, sat
too long as a street tumour
spat up on the pavement.
You must miss the frailness
of the skin that sheltered
your birth, the patterns
strewn across the sheets
in blurs of stripes and dots,
colours and tones. But now
it's a sickly sight, those ribs
scuttle like limbs pushing
through a shell that suited
your broken spindles just
fine. Maybe you need a fix
of a skin to get you in shape,
web the joints in the hope
someone will hold you again,
your handle gripped in hand.
Soothe livid thought
give cool, quiet birth.
See with one time,
across solitary dawn.
You voice sound,
yet give rain color.
This storm rhythm,
meager, though soft,
over stone could not hold.
Brilliant music beside,
celebrate every drink of wicked wind.
Taste. Dance. Sing.
Through winter night,
and summer morning.
Slip by like water,
not under myself,
or beneath love,
but remember after who & what you are.
dance through change,
& leave life happy.
When music is poetry,
hear with love.
A heart must speak
between language & thought.
A poet will use
lightning & dirt.
Sound is vision,
light is word...
Pamela, I suppose,
Has taken one too many lines
And has given birth to a child
With a few extra mental arms and legs.
Green trees and
Vietnamese agent orange
Fell into her lungs a bit early
As she painted her portraits
And found her ideal of love in mine.
Women, I’ve found,
Have quite the strange way
Of making change.
We can’t all be Elizabeth Stantons
And Sylvia Plaths.
We can’t all be the bra-burners,
The Vietnam-Veteran spitters
That this generation of tetosterone-enticers
Has emerged from.
Pamela, like so many other long-haired,
Nail-painted beauties before her,
Lost herself in an opus of cocaine
That brought her down
To a level terribly under
Those of substantial criminals.
As Burgess wrote, “You were not
Put on this Earth just
To get in touch
Pamela, I suppose,
Failed at just the same,
Became a Russian spy
And illuminated a flame of displeasing energy
In the heart of my breathless being.
Heart and mind
were by the devil
raped. To unaborted evil,
giving birth in kind.
Here I am walking down the street,
With crowds of people jostling about me,
All of them with umbrellas at hand.
Yet, I am thankful for the rain
Disguising the tears streaming down my face.
So nobody can see what’s going on inside.
Sympathetic looks I receive from random passers-by
But no one even reaches out.
No one tries to help.
Under the downpour that masks my face
You would see a broken heart.
Innocence lost with nothing gained;
What is this world coming to?
Promises cracked at the seams,
With lies given to glue our hopes back together.
With this dented society, it seems to be
Nothing pure, will I ever see.
Broken at birth, our perception warped.
Will I ever glimpse something genuine and true?
Something that has not been changed
By the culture of today;
A something built on uniqueness and strength?
Without a care of who is watching.
Not a thought gone to judging.
I dream that one day all will live in harmony.
But I guess that good cannot be truly seen
Without a few bad things happening,
So we can finally appreciate the good.
So we can learn how to love,
Those small gifts given to us;
Like the smile of a passing stranger
Or a glimpse of the sun when it’s storming.
Still walking in the downpour of rain
But finally learning how to appreciate,
That even though the world is filled with evil,
There will always be some good
Hidden in all this darkness.
Even though my vision is fragmented,
One day I will be able to see
All the good that is around me.
© Michelle Brunet 2013