ashlyn-kriegel - Hello Poetry

Most people when they wake up in the morning crave coffee or breakfast, Something to help kick start their day in the right direction, Except a cup of Joe or omelet doesn’t entice me enough to get out of bed. I long for the scattered stars in the night sky, But I don’t mean the twinkling lights painted onto the indigo tapestry we call “dusk,” That drapes itself onto the setting sun Just enough that we can still see our hands in front of our faces And just enough that the street lights are guiding my steps. I mean the ones sprinkling your cheeks and the bridge of your nose Whose colors are a newly polished copper and whose numbers never dwindle. I like star gazing especially when the sun is shining bright And darkens the skin behind them so they shine even brighter. I like star gazing when you smile and your eyes crinkle at the corners, Folding your stars over themselves so much they demand to be spilled onto the grass below. You probably wouldn’t even notice if you lost a few Despite the dew collecting on your shoes from when you washed them off your face Simply by laughing at the horrible joke I just told. But I would pick them up and cup them in my hands to ensure they were never lost again, Placing them into a glass jar on the night stand I keep in my memory. They continue to charm me into slumber days after their light fades. I like star gazing when I can feel the heat of their glow upon my own face, In turn making my own cheeks flush pink (Even though they are trying to match the tawny sheen of your stars.) My eyes search for their patterns, creating constellations that tell stories of great adventure: Wings showing how you flew across the solar system to be here in this moment, Avoiding perils like black holes that threatened to extinguish your stars Or the serpent you battled to protect the cosmos lining your jaw. No one exactly knows how many stars are in our universe, Just as I don’t exactly know how many are smeared beneath your eyes, But I wish to find out. I wish upon every single one of those stars as if it were the first time I had seen them Like dusk is constantly hanging itself on the sleepy sun, Tucking it in for the night with a blanket made of nebulas and diamonds. Because every time you smile and crinkle your eyes, I find a new one. A new wish. I did not sleep last night; I, instead, talked to the moon. She told me she prays to have stars like yours. For beauty was always compared to her, But now it is your cheeks and bridge of your nose she, I covet. When I wake up in the morning, I do not hope I remembered to make coffee Or have enough time to make pancakes. I imagine the night again, And hope that one day The night will wake up beside me.

0

May 29, 2014

May 29, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC

Star Gazing

Most people when they wake up in the morning crave coffee or breakfast, Something to help kick start their day in the right direction, Except a cup of Joe or omelet doesn’t entice me enough to get out of bed. I long for the scattered stars in the night sky, But I don’t mean the twinkling lights painted onto the indigo tapestry we call “dusk,” That drapes itself onto the setting sun Just enough that we can still see our hands in front of our faces And just enough that the street lights are guiding my steps. I mean the ones sprinkling your cheeks and the bridge of your nose Whose colors are a newly polished copper and whose numbers never dwindle. I like star gazing especially when the sun is shining bright And darkens the skin behind them so they shine even brighter. I like star gazing when you smile and your eyes crinkle at the corners, Folding your stars over themselves so much they demand to be spilled onto the grass below. You probably wouldn’t even notice if you lost a few Despite the dew collecting on your shoes from when you washed them off your face Simply by laughing at the horrible joke I just told. But I would pick them up and cup them in my hands to ensure they were never lost again, Placing them into a glass jar on the night stand I keep in my memory. They continue to charm me into slumber days after their light fades. I like star gazing when I can feel the heat of their glow upon my own face, In turn making my own cheeks flush pink (Even though they are trying to match the tawny sheen of your stars.) My eyes search for their patterns, creating constellations that tell stories of great adventure: Wings showing how you flew across the solar system to be here in this moment, Avoiding perils like black holes that threatened to extinguish your stars Or the serpent you battled to protect the cosmos lining your jaw. No one exactly knows how many stars are in our universe, Just as I don’t exactly know how many are smeared beneath your eyes, But I wish to find out. I wish upon every single one of those stars as if it were the first time I had seen them Like dusk is constantly hanging itself on the sleepy sun, Tucking it in for the night with a blanket made of nebulas and diamonds. Because every time you smile and crinkle your eyes, I find a new one. A new wish. I did not sleep last night; I, instead, talked to the moon. She told me she prays to have stars like yours. For beauty was always compared to her, But now it is your cheeks and bridge of your nose she, I covet. When I wake up in the morning, I do not hope I remembered to make coffee Or have enough time to make pancakes. I imagine the night again, And hope that one day The night will wake up beside me.

44

I didn´t intend to forget. I didn´t intend to kiss you and bite your lip that hard. I didn´t intend to smile so much. I didn´t intend to be found on top of some stranger. When I woke up, it was all a dream, My memory wiped clean everything I would have wanted to forget. But when I want to remember, It isn´t there. I didn´t mean to drink so much Except have you ever felt so free? I was free and unafraid. That guy thinks I´m cute? Good thing I have no problem talking to him. I want another drink? Good thing I can charm myself into another free gin and tonic. Free drinks. Free me. I remember that it all tasted like water: My body needed it and I was constantly thirsty for more. I remember at first there was a burning sensation in my throat, But eventually all the ***** slid into my stomach with ease Like I had been doing this for years. Getting drunk seemed like fun. The music was loud, the room was dark enough, Who would know? Except everyone knew. Everyone knows. They know I can´t remember, Or maybe they can´t remember if I remember. I didn´t intend to kiss you Or even meet you in the first place. I should have just gone home, But I wanted my new discovered water so bad And I was dying of thirst. I didn´t intend to have no control over my actions My words My memory. I didn´t intend to be found on top of some stranger With sores covering his face and hated by the town. I didn´t intend to be found on top of the local drug addict. I didn´t intend to be an addict, But my body needed water. I didn´t intend to find scrates all over my body. Were they from his nails? Or did I fall over on the pavement that many times? I didn´t intend to be sick or create a mess, Except how do I apologize for something I don´t remember? How can I hold myself with dignity anymore? How can I confidently say that he didn´t take advantage of me When I don´t remember? Maybe if I drink water again, I will forget that I ever forgot.

0

May 27, 2014

May 27, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC

I Didn ́t Intend to Forget

49

She was the daughter of two healthy churchgoers, A sister of a little rebellious girl, And a list maker herself. She made lists of the simple: What to buy at the grocery store, What to pack for her vacation, What she needed to do for the week, What CDs she wanted to buy. She made lists of the complicated: What she wanted to do with her life (While comparing it to the list of what everyone else wanted,) Who she would have to say goodbye to (All too soon and sooner than she realized,) Where she planned to travel in the future (Granted she wasn’t drowning in debt,) How she could easily **** herself (Even though she had no intentions to do so.) She was a pensive, well-spoken woman, Someone who loved with all her heart, And made lists to make herself feel better. Lists of the pets she wanted, The names she liked, The books to read, The letters to write, The addresses of friends, The dreams of hers, The movies to watch, The poems to memorize. Her lists brought a sense of organization, A false feeling of having it all figured out, Despite the fact she knew her life could crumble At any moment from all the pressure. She was convinced the world was weighing her down To be a certain person, When in reality, all the heaviness came from herself. She thought she would let down her family, But she would only let down herself. A world where the ground was made of words and the sky of paper Saturated her vision, And her lists kept her ignorant, Her lists kept her happy. (It’s all too sad until you know, That the list maker is me.)

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC

List Maker's Plague

She was the daughter of two healthy churchgoers, A sister of a little rebellious girl, And a list maker herself. She made lists of the simple: What to buy at the grocery store, What to pack for her vacation, What she needed to do for the week, What CDs she wanted to buy. She made lists of the complicated: What she wanted to do with her life (While comparing it to the list of what everyone else wanted,) Who she would have to say goodbye to (All too soon and sooner than she realized,) Where she planned to travel in the future (Granted she wasn’t drowning in debt,) How she could easily **** herself (Even though she had no intentions to do so.) She was a pensive, well-spoken woman, Someone who loved with all her heart, And made lists to make herself feel better. Lists of the pets she wanted, The names she liked, The books to read, The letters to write, The addresses of friends, The dreams of hers, The movies to watch, The poems to memorize. Her lists brought a sense of organization, A false feeling of having it all figured out, Despite the fact she knew her life could crumble At any moment from all the pressure. She was convinced the world was weighing her down To be a certain person, When in reality, all the heaviness came from herself. She thought she would let down her family, But she would only let down herself. A world where the ground was made of words and the sky of paper Saturated her vision, And her lists kept her ignorant, Her lists kept her happy. (It’s all too sad until you know, That the list maker is me.)

43

They told me when I was younger That I could grow up to whatever I wanted to be. I could be An artist A movie star An astronaut A scientist Anything my imagination could create. Yet when I began to age, They started to bend the rules: I could be whatever I wanted to be But I had to Make this much money Be this successful Have this much intelligence Lead this kind of life. There is a predetermined mold that I am Expected to fit in order to be Accepted By the world. And I screamed, “HAPPINESS! THAT’S ALL I WANT TO WORK FOR!” However, they couldn’t hear me, My silent cries were drowning In a frigid, dying life. I tried other solutions, Something else they might take seriously: Adventure Passion Peace They were still looking for normal answers: CEO Professor Politian. They were eager to ship me away to cubicle life, Never to be heard of again. My sole job The only task ever assigned and designed for me Was to be me, Happy, passionate, creative me Who would change the world In big and small ways Who would shatter the mold I was sentenced to So that others may know In a bleak world, All we need is a little color.

0

Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC

You Have One Job

They told me when I was younger That I could grow up to whatever I wanted to be. I could be An artist A movie star An astronaut A scientist Anything my imagination could create. Yet when I began to age, They started to bend the rules: I could be whatever I wanted to be But I had to Make this much money Be this successful Have this much intelligence Lead this kind of life. There is a predetermined mold that I am Expected to fit in order to be Accepted By the world. And I screamed, “HAPPINESS! THAT’S ALL I WANT TO WORK FOR!” However, they couldn’t hear me, My silent cries were drowning In a frigid, dying life. I tried other solutions, Something else they might take seriously: Adventure Passion Peace They were still looking for normal answers: CEO Professor Politian. They were eager to ship me away to cubicle life, Never to be heard of again. My sole job The only task ever assigned and designed for me Was to be me, Happy, passionate, creative me Who would change the world In big and small ways Who would shatter the mold I was sentenced to So that others may know In a bleak world, All we need is a little color.

47

Would you believe me If I said That the moon was afraid And wanted to hide her flaws? While we lay here With our telescopes and astronauts, She tried her best To cover herself with clouds So we Don’t notice And Can’t see Her craters Which she calls “blemishes,” But we call “freckles.” Perhaps, One day the moon will see her beauty Reflecting back at her In a once dark lake Now illuminated with light.

0

Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC

Flawed Luna

Would you believe me If I said That the moon was afraid And wanted to hide her flaws? While we lay here With our telescopes and astronauts, She tried her best To cover herself with clouds So we Don’t notice And Can’t see Her craters Which she calls “blemishes,” But we call “freckles.” Perhaps, One day the moon will see her beauty Reflecting back at her In a once dark lake Now illuminated with light.

20

Driving through the countryside of Spain The hills rose enough to be covered in snow, But not enough to be called mountains. Small houses perched like sparrows And the grass was well-cut by sheep. These animals were the life of the mountains. Yet grey clouds hung like wet clothes in Spain, Bringing light mist to kiss away the snow, But not enough to drown the mountains. I called this land my home somehow And the Spanish life permeated my soul. These people were the happiness of the mountains. It was the silence that sung to Spain, The tranquility that froze in the snow, But not enough to save the mountains.

0

Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC

Spanish Mountains

Driving through the countryside of Spain The hills rose enough to be covered in snow, But not enough to be called mountains. Small houses perched like sparrows And the grass was well-cut by sheep. These animals were the life of the mountains. Yet grey clouds hung like wet clothes in Spain, Bringing light mist to kiss away the snow, But not enough to drown the mountains. I called this land my home somehow And the Spanish life permeated my soul. These people were the happiness of the mountains. It was the silence that sung to Spain, The tranquility that froze in the snow, But not enough to save the mountains.

15

My daddy would say to me, “Those who anger you, control you.” Who is deserving of that power, Turning me into someone I am not? Someone full of insults Ready to throw, Someone filled with nothing but spite. I become someone I am not, And the little monsters that inhabit my heart Come alive and feed on my malice, Growing to an inhuman size. What my daddy didn't warn me about Is the power one has When they make me happy.

0

Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC

Under Control

My daddy would say to me, “Those who anger you, control you.” Who is deserving of that power, Turning me into someone I am not? Someone full of insults Ready to throw, Someone filled with nothing but spite. I become someone I am not, And the little monsters that inhabit my heart Come alive and feed on my malice, Growing to an inhuman size. What my daddy didn't warn me about Is the power one has When they make me happy.

14

I have ventured off the road And found myself in a broken barren land Where everything is unknown And no directions but the lines on my left hand I’ll scour and search Every day and every night Weary of those creatures who perch Then swoop down in flight Perhaps one day I’ll find Where the snow gathers in whole The place my heart shall bind And dust the outside of my soul

0

Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC

Home Land

I have ventured off the road And found myself in a broken barren land Where everything is unknown And no directions but the lines on my left hand I’ll scour and search Every day and every night Weary of those creatures who perch Then swoop down in flight Perhaps one day I’ll find Where the snow gathers in whole The place my heart shall bind And dust the outside of my soul

12

We are all born into the world the same way: Gasping for breath and stretching our arms to find a loving grasp. We all leave the world in the same way too: Searching for air to fill our lungs once more and the hope that we are not alone. We all enter the same vicious cycle of life: Growing up, only to be given the terrible news That we will only have seventy-some years to live. You will die and it is a terminal disease Plaguing everyone. Good luck escaping. Maybe you’ll be the first, but I highly doubt it. I haven’t seen anyone do it yet. When we are young, we are given the whole crayon box, Wild, bright, and beautiful colors to create whatever our imagination can think of Hopefully something just as wild and bright and beautiful as the colors we use. Every year we get older More and more of our crayons are taken away So that we are only left with a mere few, All neutral colors. Our drawings are compared to those around us, Get put up on the wall to display, And all use the same colors. Soon, all the drawings begin to even look the same. All the same colors. When you politely ask for your rainbow back, Midnight blue Lemon yellow Flamingo pink Forest green Those around you begin to judge. Your drawings look different, You don’t fit in. Many shy away from your vividness, from your life, Who are you to go against the status quo? Some share their colors which you are lacking, Royal purple Mandarin orange Flaming red Periwinkle And your drawing becomes A masterpiece It’s abstract A product of an active imagination Everything you want your dreams to be. The vicious cycle of life: Being born the same Learning to be different Told you must act the same Dying the same If we all begin and end in this world the same, Why keep our lives the same? Why hesitate when asking for silver or gold? Why fit in When we are as unique as our fingerprints?

0

Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC

My Color Box

We are all born into the world the same way: Gasping for breath and stretching our arms to find a loving grasp. We all leave the world in the same way too: Searching for air to fill our lungs once more and the hope that we are not alone. We all enter the same vicious cycle of life: Growing up, only to be given the terrible news That we will only have seventy-some years to live. You will die and it is a terminal disease Plaguing everyone. Good luck escaping. Maybe you’ll be the first, but I highly doubt it. I haven’t seen anyone do it yet. When we are young, we are given the whole crayon box, Wild, bright, and beautiful colors to create whatever our imagination can think of Hopefully something just as wild and bright and beautiful as the colors we use. Every year we get older More and more of our crayons are taken away So that we are only left with a mere few, All neutral colors. Our drawings are compared to those around us, Get put up on the wall to display, And all use the same colors. Soon, all the drawings begin to even look the same. All the same colors. When you politely ask for your rainbow back, Midnight blue Lemon yellow Flamingo pink Forest green Those around you begin to judge. Your drawings look different, You don’t fit in. Many shy away from your vividness, from your life, Who are you to go against the status quo? Some share their colors which you are lacking, Royal purple Mandarin orange Flaming red Periwinkle And your drawing becomes A masterpiece It’s abstract A product of an active imagination Everything you want your dreams to be. The vicious cycle of life: Being born the same Learning to be different Told you must act the same Dying the same If we all begin and end in this world the same, Why keep our lives the same? Why hesitate when asking for silver or gold? Why fit in When we are as unique as our fingerprints?

54

He brought me Some Hot coffee And planted me An Apple tree I gave him Some Soy milk And gifted him A Fresh leek Then we watched The Buzzing bees Making Sweet honey

0

Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC

Organic Love

He brought me Some Hot coffee And planted me An Apple tree I gave him Some Soy milk And gifted him A Fresh leek Then we watched The Buzzing bees Making Sweet honey

17