This is
a cattle nation,
an endless sea of
black and white
floating perpetually towards
a smudged horizon,
grey and faded and
seemingly farther away with
each step.
I feel confined in this world of
flat-irons and resumes
and the words
and the people who say the words
but really mean something else,
expecting me to speak in the same
cookie-cutter sentences and
plan out a logical progression of mundanity
to cloak myself behind,
placing my footsteps carefully
in the molding
that was set by the infinite
faceless people that trudged on
before me.
There is no fork in this path,
no place where it splits into
two strips of gravel,
but there is grass on either side,
waist-high and swaying rhythmically
in the breeze;
I step out of my molding,
out of my cloak
and there is mud soaking my feet,
grass grazing my bare knees
and I can see music
and hear color.
I look at the black and white creatures
who can see only shapes and shades
and their grey destination
and I turn around.
I feel free in this world of
choices and serenity,
allowing my feet to lead me
to where the tall grass
meets a pond;
my body caked in dirt,
my hair loose and curly,
my lungs full of air.
The wind whispers fervently,
words unlike
anything I have ever heard
telling me of that feeling
between hiccup-sobs
and moving on,
between being tied down
and pulling away,
reminding me of the
moments of calm and
moments of chaos that
eventually led me
Here.
Staring into the reflection in the pond,
where the transparency meets
the slow ripples,
and I see
Me.
Alone,
leading the way
to my new destination.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
at least all
seven billion of us
feel heartbreak,
the high frequency sound
that explodes inside us,
screeching,
and then our hearts go
on beating,
all seven billion of them.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
My life is a
paradox of
gasping for air
and choking
between the breaths.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
At the back of the library
sits a dejected round table,
its legs shaky,
wood dulled after years of
seating outcasts.
This is my table.
In the middle of the library
sit a few rectangular tables,
filled with the kids who belong.
I watch their mouths move,
their eyes dancing,
dancing away from my gaze.
The walk to the round table is one of
"wish you could be us."
And I see him,
sitting at the edge of a rectangular table.
My legs become like that of my table's:
shaky, knees weak.
I'm accustomed to admiring from a distance,
but I want to grow accustomed to his diction,
how he talks to me with a "this is temporary"
and to them with a "this is better;"
his imagery,
the lopsided smile that grows wide when he
talks to the brunette on the track team;
his theme,
his purpose,
his everything.
But who am I?
Hunched over a book,
a knight at the round table.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
A Beast shakes me awake.
I am lying next to you,
and I watch your chest slowly
rise,
fall,
rise,
fall,
your soft breaths even
except for
the occasional sharp inhale;
A Beast tilts my head the other way.
I am staring into empty space,
but soon enough my brain recreates
my cacophony of thoughts,
shredded wisps of what was and what
has yet to be.
A woman with honeysuckle skin
trails her finger along my jawline,
and I melt into her.
She is not you.
A Beast makes me look into your eyes.
You're awake now,
and your eyes glint with enigma;
They flicker with something unknown
before you look away.
You are not honeysuckle.
You are as sharp as each of your
pen strokes on paper,
crisp as a newly typed narrative,
a Colossus of all that was
and all that has yet to be.
A Beast asks me if this is what I want.
He tells me he knows the answer.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
My life is spent treading water,
trying to keep my chin high enough
to evade the water’s cool grasp
that traces swirl patterns
along the side of my face
and beckons me to come under.
I kick my feet harder against the feathery current.
If I tilt my head
I can see the horizon,
a faded pencil line
sealing the corners of my vision,
grey and smudged from too many attempts
at erasing it.
My legs go slack.
My entire body submerges,
succumbing to the riptide.
It throws a dart at my head
and all the thoughts burst out :
I breathe them in and blow out bubbles.
They tell me to bid adieu.
I do,
I do.
His children’s feet pitter patter
and I hear their laughter,
mellifluous ha-ha’s coming straight
from their bellies.
An adieu is too harsh,
too grating against the mouth.
So I murmur a soft auf wiedersehen
and let the water fold me into its embrace.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
sometimes I just want to
sink in the ocean,
with the rest of the stones,
and never surface.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
shut them out,
clog my ears,
I cannot listen.
the words,
they attack me,
choke me,
wedging themselves within my core.
I cry,
I scream,
I take those words as truth,
and drown as they push me,
past the deepest darkness.
but as I hold my breath,
I tell myself that
even though I may be a wounded gazelle,
I have the heart and will of a lion.
and somehow,
I poke my head out of
the web of pain.
though the words,
continue to float around my head,
taunting me,
prodding my nerves,
I remember that
I am a lion,
and I will perservere.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
I could never understand,
comprehend,
why all the dolls I had
when I was little,
were so pretty.
they stared at me,
through glassy eyes,
eyes with the most
dazzling pigments.
their tiny dresses,
sewn by a few threads
and idealistic whims,
fit their skinny bodies perfectly,
exposing a carefully crafted figure.
their painted lips curled up,
into an everlasting smile,
and they seemed to mouth
'what is fat? what is imperfection?'
I also could never understand,
why all the girls wanted to be,
not just like the dolls,
but be a manifestation of those dolls.
do they want
to not have a single thought in their heads,
except the desire for perfection and admiration,
for people to think that they're beautiful?
do they want
to blink behind vacant eyes,
with lashes curled?
do they want,
to have constantly worry,
about having a fold of fat
on their skin?
there is a reason,
why dolls are unmoving.
they have to be controlled,
by a superior force,
guiding their actions.
is that who you want to be?
I can assure you, my friend,
I may not be a beauty queen,
and I may have some fat to my name,
but I am not a doll.
And I am **** proud.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
in the middle of the meadow,
where the flowers sing,
and the sun smiles,
lays a girl,
who looks at the sky.
and she gets lost in her imagination,
staring at each cloud as they pass by.
but she can't find her cloud nine,
because it's not with the sun.
and as she smiles,
like a love struck idiot,
she realizes that he's the only thing
that keeps her from wishing to be
one with the sky.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC