emma-louise - Hello Poetry

Remember that time when I was on a first date with that guy. I brought him to your place and we sat at the edge of the pool while you laughed at the german-exchange student swimming laps. And I jumped in with all of my clothes on and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, because of the way I floated but he didn’t know that it was something I always did He texted me later saying he wished he kissed me but I didn’t check until morning because we were singing loud and the neighbors were yelling We lived outside of Richmond but didn’t like to think of it that way like it was separate but the way we put up fences like rows of wooden teeth isolated us within The patches on the Huguenot Bridge, the old one made your car bounce and the radio went in and out Remember that time when we would only smoke marlboro’s? That guy’s car was a stick so it didn’t move the same way yours did and he accidentally turned down that one way street on our way to meet you at that show But I don’t even remember going in because of something like the doors were closed but the sound was ****** so we walked around the corner to that place we like to go and sit on the pillows on the floor At home I sat on the third floor alone, and the lack of laughter is louder somehow And the shadows stretch further as the night gets longer and draws out the little pieces... Let’s stay sane so we drive downtown and see three guys long boarding down broad street at midnight they’re in that band that’s pretty good so we yell out the window and break into a long laugh. Sadness is like salt that pool was like the dead sea it helps you float because no one wants to sink to such abundant misery And joy it was there too riding in cars with you and that guy who loved me like a fool The two ideas of pain and joy lingered over me like opposing magnets but the water must have been cold because I was numb But when gravity pulls from two sides it compresses The Earth breaks and makes a mountain; I broke and sank to the fiberglass bottom of your ***** suburban pool.

0

Feb 6, 2014

Feb 6, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC

Buoyancy

Remember that time when I was on a first date with that guy. I brought him to your place and we sat at the edge of the pool while you laughed at the german-exchange student swimming laps. And I jumped in with all of my clothes on and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, because of the way I floated but he didn’t know that it was something I always did He texted me later saying he wished he kissed me but I didn’t check until morning because we were singing loud and the neighbors were yelling We lived outside of Richmond but didn’t like to think of it that way like it was separate but the way we put up fences like rows of wooden teeth isolated us within The patches on the Huguenot Bridge, the old one made your car bounce and the radio went in and out Remember that time when we would only smoke marlboro’s? That guy’s car was a stick so it didn’t move the same way yours did and he accidentally turned down that one way street on our way to meet you at that show But I don’t even remember going in because of something like the doors were closed but the sound was ****** so we walked around the corner to that place we like to go and sit on the pillows on the floor At home I sat on the third floor alone, and the lack of laughter is louder somehow And the shadows stretch further as the night gets longer and draws out the little pieces... Let’s stay sane so we drive downtown and see three guys long boarding down broad street at midnight they’re in that band that’s pretty good so we yell out the window and break into a long laugh. Sadness is like salt that pool was like the dead sea it helps you float because no one wants to sink to such abundant misery And joy it was there too riding in cars with you and that guy who loved me like a fool The two ideas of pain and joy lingered over me like opposing magnets but the water must have been cold because I was numb But when gravity pulls from two sides it compresses The Earth breaks and makes a mountain; I broke and sank to the fiberglass bottom of your ***** suburban pool.

86

I see a white speck on the horizon, like lint falling, a ship moves to a distant place. “Africa,” Rosa says, “Where there is a dense jungle and then long bare stretches of savannah grass.” Ellen speaks, “This day is grey and so are we. Rain falls on this beach with rough sand. We come here to say goodbye.” “I feel all the faucets of my life have flowed into this body, purifying and contaminating,” says Anna, “The grey sky and the grey sea are one and I do not know whether the sun rises or sets.” “It rises. The day of our lives is new and fruitful. We are but 19. I think of colorful clothes I will wear, traveling, dancing with men,” says Rosa. “It sets. This body is inky with pain which tugs the sea in like the night tide. Soon it will drain into the Earth, leaving the seafloor bare with sticky starfish and unopened clams,” says Ellen. Anna speaks, “I wish I could pause this day and keep it forever suspended above me, like a dancing dream mobile. Or I will keep it in my pocket and we will all forget the consciousness of time. Rise and let’s leave this symbolic scene.” No we will go on. “Glory does not find me here,” says Rosa, “But I am made for it. I will work in tall important buildings. Men will know my name. One day, we will walk along the Seine.” Ellen asks, “Where does my body reside? I will try to conquer it. I use it and I feel it’s power. Power is intoxicating for a woman, so much more so than a man, for there is little power born into us-- we must find it in the world. Men do not conquer me as they believe they do when they touch me. I will be the emperor of myself. I am wielding something virile and bold, I have yet to learn it’s true power. I will use it, I will use it.” “My body resides under my hands,” says Anna, “It is solid and I believe in it. I feel it’s potential. I will keep it from those who do not realize my claim, and who will try to take it for themselves. I fear contamination in the loss of purity. I see banks of snow, I see a dandelion before I blow.” Rosa says, “This day is not clear. I demand for the clouds to part. I will sit on the banks of purgatory until my fated day. The sea does not break at my defiance. I am in misery.” Ellen says, “This day is not clear. I leave this sand spot under the sky. We are too close to it and it is hot at the touch. I await the natural clearing. I say goodbye, I will spend these days inland.” Anna says, “This day is not clear. I never wanted time to be. I have no solution for it.”

0

Sep 25, 2013

Sep 25, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC

19

I see a white speck on the horizon, like lint falling, a ship moves to a distant place. “Africa,” Rosa says, “Where there is a dense jungle and then long bare stretches of savannah grass.” Ellen speaks, “This day is grey and so are we. Rain falls on this beach with rough sand. We come here to say goodbye.” “I feel all the faucets of my life have flowed into this body, purifying and contaminating,” says Anna, “The grey sky and the grey sea are one and I do not know whether the sun rises or sets.” “It rises. The day of our lives is new and fruitful. We are but 19. I think of colorful clothes I will wear, traveling, dancing with men,” says Rosa. “It sets. This body is inky with pain which tugs the sea in like the night tide. Soon it will drain into the Earth, leaving the seafloor bare with sticky starfish and unopened clams,” says Ellen. Anna speaks, “I wish I could pause this day and keep it forever suspended above me, like a dancing dream mobile. Or I will keep it in my pocket and we will all forget the consciousness of time. Rise and let’s leave this symbolic scene.” No we will go on. “Glory does not find me here,” says Rosa, “But I am made for it. I will work in tall important buildings. Men will know my name. One day, we will walk along the Seine.” Ellen asks, “Where does my body reside? I will try to conquer it. I use it and I feel it’s power. Power is intoxicating for a woman, so much more so than a man, for there is little power born into us-- we must find it in the world. Men do not conquer me as they believe they do when they touch me. I will be the emperor of myself. I am wielding something virile and bold, I have yet to learn it’s true power. I will use it, I will use it.” “My body resides under my hands,” says Anna, “It is solid and I believe in it. I feel it’s potential. I will keep it from those who do not realize my claim, and who will try to take it for themselves. I fear contamination in the loss of purity. I see banks of snow, I see a dandelion before I blow.” Rosa says, “This day is not clear. I demand for the clouds to part. I will sit on the banks of purgatory until my fated day. The sea does not break at my defiance. I am in misery.” Ellen says, “This day is not clear. I leave this sand spot under the sky. We are too close to it and it is hot at the touch. I await the natural clearing. I say goodbye, I will spend these days inland.” Anna says, “This day is not clear. I never wanted time to be. I have no solution for it.”

14

A prism person's outline, gone when I turn my head Perspective’s prison Countless cycles wash themselves sterile in the circular and kidney shaped lakes of my veins. Begging, born again Everyday I see a new sun my shadow is thrown on the horizon and the light looks weightless, and I am feather blended effortlessly, a new ray But my eyes flick and I move with the motion of the earth rotating to a dark day It keeps a vague sense of newness Night is a grainy antannae tv my edges fuzz away in it’s loud ocean, I am indefinable in it’s body. Light penetrates water and throws a shadow seven ways deep Me, a stream streaming like light through a window a bay through a dam I stream in silhouettes too in the tar black ocean bottom Flowing under tired tides pulled under with the moon Align and soon sea becomes a circle Prisms thrown back, a retract into the keep it is my skull, my chest my body contains I find glory in the unity of myselves

0

Jul 30, 2013

Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC

A Perspective

A prism person's outline, gone when I turn my head Perspective’s prison Countless cycles wash themselves sterile in the circular and kidney shaped lakes of my veins. Begging, born again Everyday I see a new sun my shadow is thrown on the horizon and the light looks weightless, and I am feather blended effortlessly, a new ray But my eyes flick and I move with the motion of the earth rotating to a dark day It keeps a vague sense of newness Night is a grainy antannae tv my edges fuzz away in it’s loud ocean, I am indefinable in it’s body. Light penetrates water and throws a shadow seven ways deep Me, a stream streaming like light through a window a bay through a dam I stream in silhouettes too in the tar black ocean bottom Flowing under tired tides pulled under with the moon Align and soon sea becomes a circle Prisms thrown back, a retract into the keep it is my skull, my chest my body contains I find glory in the unity of myselves

44

My grasp is failing on this thing that like a silk sheet filters through my fists, I am starting to understand. This thing is the embrace of blood flowing circulary in our fingertips and veins. Together and ebullient bouyant, bouncing at the bony freckled feel of arms, the soapy smell of our dirt hair and lemon eyes. It is not the warm months of being sticky happy in the dark wooden, refridgerator-lighted kitchen. I grasp at something greater a finish and a start to pull me back from poisonous tides, slipping hillsides. Its the track of everyone I've ever been Because my truth is that I'm only me with them. A track to run and time to spend. Finding our ways back again in little toothy smile moments Stars in the daytime or ships in the dark They're my finish they're my start

0

Jul 20, 2013

Jul 20, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC

The Sisters

My grasp is failing on this thing that like a silk sheet filters through my fists, I am starting to understand. This thing is the embrace of blood flowing circulary in our fingertips and veins. Together and ebullient bouyant, bouncing at the bony freckled feel of arms, the soapy smell of our dirt hair and lemon eyes. It is not the warm months of being sticky happy in the dark wooden, refridgerator-lighted kitchen. I grasp at something greater a finish and a start to pull me back from poisonous tides, slipping hillsides. Its the track of everyone I've ever been Because my truth is that I'm only me with them. A track to run and time to spend. Finding our ways back again in little toothy smile moments Stars in the daytime or ships in the dark They're my finish they're my start

37

I am tired of being a beggar Gripping you to my desperate chest, it only makes you turn on me My anger, my hate, is only love pushed back into my giving bones. Take it, take it, take these tears I do not want the world without you I live on your fingertips but I can't reach your distant face Maybe I should take the note, stay away where I no longer feel the distance in every space Hell is loving at arms length. So why be loved but a beggar that is a game inflicting an ounce more love than the pain reeling me back just to feel cold again

0

Jun 13, 2013

Jun 13, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC

Beggar

I am tired of being a beggar Gripping you to my desperate chest, it only makes you turn on me My anger, my hate, is only love pushed back into my giving bones. Take it, take it, take these tears I do not want the world without you I live on your fingertips but I can't reach your distant face Maybe I should take the note, stay away where I no longer feel the distance in every space Hell is loving at arms length. So why be loved but a beggar that is a game inflicting an ounce more love than the pain reeling me back just to feel cold again

18

You would pull out our feathers and have us thank you for it. Who are we but women injected with black venom to strip the song from our chest It starts as a whisper, a twisting hand, so begins the mutilation of our wings. We find our once sharp tongues forked singing only false promises, alluring lies. You tell us: Lose consciousness and gain it Become your body and rid the mind Elicit desire You want this Does it matter? You have made us blameful anyway All will overlook the crimes against the Mockingbird. We are criminals Featherless, naked, lying mute Use us for we are nothing but the impression of a symbol lost.

0

May 14, 2013

May 14, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC

Mockingbird

You would pull out our feathers and have us thank you for it. Who are we but women injected with black venom to strip the song from our chest It starts as a whisper, a twisting hand, so begins the mutilation of our wings. We find our once sharp tongues forked singing only false promises, alluring lies. You tell us: Lose consciousness and gain it Become your body and rid the mind Elicit desire You want this Does it matter? You have made us blameful anyway All will overlook the crimes against the Mockingbird. We are criminals Featherless, naked, lying mute Use us for we are nothing but the impression of a symbol lost.

24

I recall the feel of our bodies pressed tightly in the backseat. The freedom of letting my fingers linger over your palm and up your arm, around your neck, and adams apple. I’d always wanted to know a body, not just the unexposed places between our thighs. Because everything is forbidden. The cool feel of placing my cheek to chest. The intimacy of hearing a heart beat on a quiet night in the summer. The way it will murmur secret love and secret shame. My hands, making a map of the placement of your face, will draw along your cheekbones, high and freckled slightly, down to the lips which part and tell me to never stop. Skin stretching over muscle and bone. Timid virility. Reaching and searching for validation in my touch. This is what we give each other.

0

May 4, 2013

May 4, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC

Skin

I recall the feel of our bodies pressed tightly in the backseat. The freedom of letting my fingers linger over your palm and up your arm, around your neck, and adams apple. I’d always wanted to know a body, not just the unexposed places between our thighs. Because everything is forbidden. The cool feel of placing my cheek to chest. The intimacy of hearing a heart beat on a quiet night in the summer. The way it will murmur secret love and secret shame. My hands, making a map of the placement of your face, will draw along your cheekbones, high and freckled slightly, down to the lips which part and tell me to never stop. Skin stretching over muscle and bone. Timid virility. Reaching and searching for validation in my touch. This is what we give each other.

1

Were we guilt of trying to be something we were not? Unpleasantness went unspoken: death, *** depression Ideas which did not exist in our buttercup yellow stake in suburbia Like a slate was held over the tops of our heads keeping knowledge out keeping pain in where it festered in our bones and our minds became darkened all the same Dispassionate parents whose fire rests unknown bred a lost generation I and my sisters, our little brother all burning up inside. Contradicting notions manifesting themselves over the years Who will we become? Where does the path of a sterile, manicured lawn lead? It leads to each other that is how we will find ourselves in the flesh of our flesh.

0

Apr 25, 2013

Apr 25, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC

Stake in Suburbia

Were we guilt of trying to be something we were not? Unpleasantness went unspoken: death, *** depression Ideas which did not exist in our buttercup yellow stake in suburbia Like a slate was held over the tops of our heads keeping knowledge out keeping pain in where it festered in our bones and our minds became darkened all the same Dispassionate parents whose fire rests unknown bred a lost generation I and my sisters, our little brother all burning up inside. Contradicting notions manifesting themselves over the years Who will we become? Where does the path of a sterile, manicured lawn lead? It leads to each other that is how we will find ourselves in the flesh of our flesh.

28

I recall the old feel of my skin. My tiny hand, and fingers “Five” Dancing on tops of Dad’s loafers released from the tyranny of the meaning of Who Am I? I am “Eleven” under a sweatshirt skin itchy in places face, in the mirror when I am alone streaking with unmascaraed tears I am “Sixteen” my hand pushing against a boys chest but for no or for yes? I suppose it is fine, no mind of mine. I am “Eighteen” Womanly singular hiding what is unsure I am “Nineteen” experiences mark me darken me writing with tattoos on my fingers

0

Apr 24, 2013

Apr 24, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC

I am, I am, I am

I recall the old feel of my skin. My tiny hand, and fingers “Five” Dancing on tops of Dad’s loafers released from the tyranny of the meaning of Who Am I? I am “Eleven” under a sweatshirt skin itchy in places face, in the mirror when I am alone streaking with unmascaraed tears I am “Sixteen” my hand pushing against a boys chest but for no or for yes? I suppose it is fine, no mind of mine. I am “Eighteen” Womanly singular hiding what is unsure I am “Nineteen” experiences mark me darken me writing with tattoos on my fingers

33

I wore my clothes today My clothes That one greenish sweater with all the holes I might as well be an atheist or a Clemson fan crimes comparable to wearing vans In South Carolina you follow the rules unless it comes to racism and ***** Don’t you dare look like you tried It’s sports chic and southern tide You better have an excuse for choosing to be you “I had to wear this dress, it’s laundry day” If you ask me why I’m dressed a certain way I’ll probably just respond **** you”

0

Apr 24, 2013

Apr 24, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC

My Clothes

I wore my clothes today My clothes That one greenish sweater with all the holes I might as well be an atheist or a Clemson fan crimes comparable to wearing vans In South Carolina you follow the rules unless it comes to racism and ***** Don’t you dare look like you tried It’s sports chic and southern tide You better have an excuse for choosing to be you “I had to wear this dress, it’s laundry day” If you ask me why I’m dressed a certain way I’ll probably just respond **** you”

23