dani-huffman - Hello Poetry

I'm sad. I don't want to be poetic about it, and compare my tears to the drops of rain before the storm, or how this weight inside my chest shortens my breaths and makes my heart work harder, beat harder. I'm done with trying to write everything away, like paper can keep my emotions prisoner when I shut the book. Why does my throat tighten, and my eyes feel heavy with grief like lead? Why can't I shake the dread and the worry, the belief that there won't be a better tomorrow? When will I be at rest? When will I be asleep at two in the morning, instead of nursing my demons at the mother's breast of my mind, too tired to wean then from the ****** that drains me?

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Nov 15, 2014

Nov 15, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC

My Sad, Pathetic Self

I'm sad. I don't want to be poetic about it, and compare my tears to the drops of rain before the storm, or how this weight inside my chest shortens my breaths and makes my heart work harder, beat harder. I'm done with trying to write everything away, like paper can keep my emotions prisoner when I shut the book. Why does my throat tighten, and my eyes feel heavy with grief like lead? Why can't I shake the dread and the worry, the belief that there won't be a better tomorrow? When will I be at rest? When will I be asleep at two in the morning, instead of nursing my demons at the mother's breast of my mind, too tired to wean then from the ****** that drains me?

46

Sometimes I want to scream, but forget that I have lungs. Nails digging into palms too soft, half moon creases into skin like nights lasted until three in the morning. I cannot find voice; I am silent. You may open my mouth, but the words are stuck to its roof, saturated in its tongue. You may rip the duct tape off, peeling layer upon layer of skin until blood trickles down to my teeth, but I will not cry out, not even smack my lips; I am silence.

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Nov 15, 2014

Nov 15, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC

Mum

Sometimes I want to scream, but forget that I have lungs. Nails digging into palms too soft, half moon creases into skin like nights lasted until three in the morning. I cannot find voice; I am silent. You may open my mouth, but the words are stuck to its roof, saturated in its tongue. You may rip the duct tape off, peeling layer upon layer of skin until blood trickles down to my teeth, but I will not cry out, not even smack my lips; I am silence.

30

You do not define my colors, or how I see my eyes in the mirror. You don't pull the corset laces to fit me into your ideal waist size; you don't take my brush and smudge out my imperfections. I'll paint the sky and show you who I really am. I'll dip the brush onto my tongue, write the words in the clouds that I've wanted to say since I could formulate screams on my baby lips. I am not the sun, but you are not the moon; how can you hail higher than I when you are still standing on the ground? Can those who are mighty sprout crowns from their heads like a baby bird grows the feathers on its wings? Do jewels fall from your mouth like your voice is worth more than Mitus's gold? Do the branches of the trees fall to their arches as you pass them by? If you are so, then please, take my hand and paint me red with all the things you are that I'll never be.

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May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC

A Prism called a Rainbow

You do not define my colors, or how I see my eyes in the mirror. You don't pull the corset laces to fit me into your ideal waist size; you don't take my brush and smudge out my imperfections. I'll paint the sky and show you who I really am. I'll dip the brush onto my tongue, write the words in the clouds that I've wanted to say since I could formulate screams on my baby lips. I am not the sun, but you are not the moon; how can you hail higher than I when you are still standing on the ground? Can those who are mighty sprout crowns from their heads like a baby bird grows the feathers on its wings? Do jewels fall from your mouth like your voice is worth more than Mitus's gold? Do the branches of the trees fall to their arches as you pass them by? If you are so, then please, take my hand and paint me red with all the things you are that I'll never be.

43

The energy has left me; I no longer exist. I am only body parts, like a machine set on auto pilot. My mind is elsewhere, on an adventure somewhere in Peru, or under the Pacific ocean's front. It's like they own me, gouge out my eyes, cut off my tongue and make me pretty; pinch my waist and paint my lips, sew them like a designer dress. If the rest have given up, why shouldn't I, a black pawn among kings and queens?

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May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC

Life is a Game

The energy has left me; I no longer exist. I am only body parts, like a machine set on auto pilot. My mind is elsewhere, on an adventure somewhere in Peru, or under the Pacific ocean's front. It's like they own me, gouge out my eyes, cut off my tongue and make me pretty; pinch my waist and paint my lips, sew them like a designer dress. If the rest have given up, why shouldn't I, a black pawn among kings and queens?

31

I can only hold on so long, like slips of paper in your hand. I am not chained down to you or this life; I am freedom. I'll never grow the wings of a bird or butterfly, or be above this world like clouds in the sky, but I am not sedentary. I am not a tree, but I am grounded. I'll stay until I uproot or am uprooted, taking with me the seasons and their grace, the apple blossoms behind my ears, and my withered arms from too harsh a winter. I am imagination and spirit, I am essence. I am beyond this world in eyes and heart, in the scars and hairs that cover my body; I am the remains of humanity, where humanity itself lies within my ashes.

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May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC

Paper Slips

I can only hold on so long, like slips of paper in your hand. I am not chained down to you or this life; I am freedom. I'll never grow the wings of a bird or butterfly, or be above this world like clouds in the sky, but I am not sedentary. I am not a tree, but I am grounded. I'll stay until I uproot or am uprooted, taking with me the seasons and their grace, the apple blossoms behind my ears, and my withered arms from too harsh a winter. I am imagination and spirit, I am essence. I am beyond this world in eyes and heart, in the scars and hairs that cover my body; I am the remains of humanity, where humanity itself lies within my ashes.

45

The demons never say goodnight; they never wait until morning. They're waiting in the shadows, trolls under the bridge, monsters in the closet, nightmares worse than our most sweat-drenching dreams. ...I can never go to sleep.

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May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC

Short, Less than Pleasant

The demons never say goodnight; they never wait until morning. They're waiting in the shadows, trolls under the bridge, monsters in the closet, nightmares worse than our most sweat-drenching dreams. ...I can never go to sleep.

12

My body is my only canvas, but my tools lack the love and bristles of a painter's brush. I am a masterpiece, an abstract of scars and freckled skin. I draw lines of blood along my arms, carve words into my thighs. I tell a story in broken lines because my voice and hands waiver. The picture I paint isn't pretty; it's coated in tears and shedded make-up, veins forever pumping blood down my cheeks. But the tale it tells is beyond skin deep, down to heart and lungs and moving limbs, the way we walk and the way we sing, how we love and are loved, despite titles and the color of our skin, the meals we've skipped or how many times we've made ourselves bleed. You may take the knife to your wrist, or pour the bleach down your throat, but you are no less beautiful than the models on TV who bear their bones and cover up the imperfections, the girls at lunch who eat whatever they want and still are as thin as the toothpicks that hold their sandwiches together, the bigger kids who learned to accept their bodies before you could ever accept yours, or the face in the mirror you've failed to associate with the one looking back.

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May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC

For Those

My body is my only canvas, but my tools lack the love and bristles of a painter's brush. I am a masterpiece, an abstract of scars and freckled skin. I draw lines of blood along my arms, carve words into my thighs. I tell a story in broken lines because my voice and hands waiver. The picture I paint isn't pretty; it's coated in tears and shedded make-up, veins forever pumping blood down my cheeks. But the tale it tells is beyond skin deep, down to heart and lungs and moving limbs, the way we walk and the way we sing, how we love and are loved, despite titles and the color of our skin, the meals we've skipped or how many times we've made ourselves bleed. You may take the knife to your wrist, or pour the bleach down your throat, but you are no less beautiful than the models on TV who bear their bones and cover up the imperfections, the girls at lunch who eat whatever they want and still are as thin as the toothpicks that hold their sandwiches together, the bigger kids who learned to accept their bodies before you could ever accept yours, or the face in the mirror you've failed to associate with the one looking back.

67

You are simplicity, a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Your eyes are the color of slate slicked with rain, mine to hold in my gaze, trying to find the tiny brown spot you say I never see. You are long hikes in the summer and car rides in the winter, hand in hand down old dirt roads. You are heavy metal songs louder than the beating of our hearts late at night, drowning out the truths that scream obscenities in our ears. You are uncertainty, an awkward hand that adjusts to hold mine, lanky fingers, calloused and agile beyond your twenty years. Your tongue lacks my linguistic quickness, but I'll never have your gull or guts to attempt the impossible and questionable moments you live for. I'll never see the need to be care-free, climb to your heights, or throw worries down the street like the pages of your favorite book.

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May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC

Boy

You are simplicity, a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Your eyes are the color of slate slicked with rain, mine to hold in my gaze, trying to find the tiny brown spot you say I never see. You are long hikes in the summer and car rides in the winter, hand in hand down old dirt roads. You are heavy metal songs louder than the beating of our hearts late at night, drowning out the truths that scream obscenities in our ears. You are uncertainty, an awkward hand that adjusts to hold mine, lanky fingers, calloused and agile beyond your twenty years. Your tongue lacks my linguistic quickness, but I'll never have your gull or guts to attempt the impossible and questionable moments you live for. I'll never see the need to be care-free, climb to your heights, or throw worries down the street like the pages of your favorite book.

47

We are bent, but not broken. Our bodies are old tree stumps cut down long ago, but our hearts and minds will stretch like branches, reach towards the stars that we'll wear like late cherry blossoms. We are dried and withered from years of harsh words against our skin, and battered fists into our guts. But, you and I, will join together our hands and intertwine our fingers into limbs a hundred strong. We will stand taller than they, upon hills and mountain tops, higher than the clouds that once blocked our eyes. We are the underdogs, while they sit among their riches and animosity. But we are the ones who will change this world, dig up the soil and plant the remains of what little good is left in the palm of our hands.

0

Apr 18, 2013

Apr 18, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC

Oh, the Soul You'll Grow

We are bent, but not broken. Our bodies are old tree stumps cut down long ago, but our hearts and minds will stretch like branches, reach towards the stars that we'll wear like late cherry blossoms. We are dried and withered from years of harsh words against our skin, and battered fists into our guts. But, you and I, will join together our hands and intertwine our fingers into limbs a hundred strong. We will stand taller than they, upon hills and mountain tops, higher than the clouds that once blocked our eyes. We are the underdogs, while they sit among their riches and animosity. But we are the ones who will change this world, dig up the soil and plant the remains of what little good is left in the palm of our hands.

38

Cigarette between your lips, smoke around your face, you are an angel. You cloud your eyes with depth and drink, and coat your lips with ash, stale-piss breath in your lungs. You are not bad, but the goodness inside of you is the size of an ember from your last cigarette. You are tar and toxins, hidden beneath the sickly sweet tang of nicotine. You were intoxication, a drink I abused because I couldn't forget the taste. You are a drug inside my body, flowing through my blood stream, poisoning my veins. You were never good for me, but I enjoyed the sickness, the sweat, the illusion that I was a light you wouldn't burn out.

0

Apr 14, 2013

Apr 14, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC

Smoke and Bathroom Mirrors

Cigarette between your lips, smoke around your face, you are an angel. You cloud your eyes with depth and drink, and coat your lips with ash, stale-piss breath in your lungs. You are not bad, but the goodness inside of you is the size of an ember from your last cigarette. You are tar and toxins, hidden beneath the sickly sweet tang of nicotine. You were intoxication, a drink I abused because I couldn't forget the taste. You are a drug inside my body, flowing through my blood stream, poisoning my veins. You were never good for me, but I enjoyed the sickness, the sweat, the illusion that I was a light you wouldn't burn out.

34