jessie-5 - Hello Poetry

1. I live in constant fear of the goose bumps on my skin, waiting, expecting the hair on my arms to stand on end. Pinprick needles pushing up through my skin. 2. My mother can’t sleep through the night, constantly checking for some visual sign of telepathy, her cheek permanently frozen to the screen of her cell phone as she lies in the lightless room. 3. My sister’s habits habituate into those of a lightning bug in the daytime. Unusual and unexpected, five toe touches on this carpet’s edge, seventy-two fingertips on her own eyelids. Idly fidgeting until it is time to zip around in blinding light. 4. Day after day I am weighed down by mountains beneath the ocean’s surface, chained, hovering just above the break, gasping for dear life and screaming for salvation. 5. I can’t control my thoughts (my thoughts control me). 6. Thought bubbles in my head only float for a little while, clouding my vision and crying for their lightning, as thunderbolt after thunderbolt stikes— anxiety sounds like the color black. 7. I lie on cheap sofas spasming and sweaty, skyscrapers of disappointment looming over my miniscule banged up Toyota of a body. There’s a dent on my side door. 8. When I sit, still as a smudge of black ink left over on my thumb, I pray that the vending machine won’t steal my money—I only have two seventy-five in my pocket. 9. I call my dad. He is the messenger. 10. Any two words can spearhead a revolution; my eyelids always lose and the floodgates break down, the people in the streets scatter for safety. 11. If I think about the future, the sky becomes one gigantic storm cloud, the world becomes a tornado, and everyone survives but me. The heavens turn dark and I am thrown into a world made up of a computerized font. Courier New. 12. Courier New is very monochromatic. An angular typeface. My face is pretty round. 13. When the storm ends, I am black and white with exhaustion, a pressure washed pane of glass, waiting to again need a thorough cleaning. The pressure washer comes every few days.

0

Sep 28, 2014

Sep 28, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC

This is What it Feels Like

1. I live in constant fear of the goose bumps on my skin, waiting, expecting the hair on my arms to stand on end. Pinprick needles pushing up through my skin. 2. My mother can’t sleep through the night, constantly checking for some visual sign of telepathy, her cheek permanently frozen to the screen of her cell phone as she lies in the lightless room. 3. My sister’s habits habituate into those of a lightning bug in the daytime. Unusual and unexpected, five toe touches on this carpet’s edge, seventy-two fingertips on her own eyelids. Idly fidgeting until it is time to zip around in blinding light. 4. Day after day I am weighed down by mountains beneath the ocean’s surface, chained, hovering just above the break, gasping for dear life and screaming for salvation. 5. I can’t control my thoughts (my thoughts control me). 6. Thought bubbles in my head only float for a little while, clouding my vision and crying for their lightning, as thunderbolt after thunderbolt stikes— anxiety sounds like the color black. 7. I lie on cheap sofas spasming and sweaty, skyscrapers of disappointment looming over my miniscule banged up Toyota of a body. There’s a dent on my side door. 8. When I sit, still as a smudge of black ink left over on my thumb, I pray that the vending machine won’t steal my money—I only have two seventy-five in my pocket. 9. I call my dad. He is the messenger. 10. Any two words can spearhead a revolution; my eyelids always lose and the floodgates break down, the people in the streets scatter for safety. 11. If I think about the future, the sky becomes one gigantic storm cloud, the world becomes a tornado, and everyone survives but me. The heavens turn dark and I am thrown into a world made up of a computerized font. Courier New. 12. Courier New is very monochromatic. An angular typeface. My face is pretty round. 13. When the storm ends, I am black and white with exhaustion, a pressure washed pane of glass, waiting to again need a thorough cleaning. The pressure washer comes every few days.

42

When I was 8 I would draw stick figures of black and white standing alone next to a forest green trees, dandelions, and carnations pink, swaying in the wind amongst a sunset orange and bittersweet. When I was 10 I would draw twinkling outer space purple mountains majesty still as midnight blue bell rings, encompassing all things atomic tangerine planets and occasionally a piercing laser lemon electric lime stars streaking through the sky. When I was 17 I would draw scribbly doodles run wild strawberry heart screaming tickle me pink blush on its face, waiting for its cadet blush crush to save it from dreaming in history of jazz berry jam scents lingering on its lips.

0

Sep 26, 2014

Sep 26, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC

120 Colors of Growing Up

When I was 8 I would draw stick figures of black and white standing alone next to a forest green trees, dandelions, and carnations pink, swaying in the wind amongst a sunset orange and bittersweet. When I was 10 I would draw twinkling outer space purple mountains majesty still as midnight blue bell rings, encompassing all things atomic tangerine planets and occasionally a piercing laser lemon electric lime stars streaking through the sky. When I was 17 I would draw scribbly doodles run wild strawberry heart screaming tickle me pink blush on its face, waiting for its cadet blush crush to save it from dreaming in history of jazz berry jam scents lingering on its lips.

22

His eyes seem to be almost as if he is sleeping, dreaming of New York City and bright lights and other girls dancing among flashing strobes, their trendy halters halting his breathing and startling him back into awareness. He realizes he’s been resting his cheek on his knuckle, though all he can really feel is numbness and a slight tingle as his nerves begin to increase to match the angle of the plane. The jolt of landing reawakens his arm and the buzzing bee inside his brain as he envisions with an almost painful smile a perfect dive into the great water before him. He is there and I am here, but my hair is dripping wet.

0

Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC

The boy with the downturned eyes

His eyes seem to be almost as if he is sleeping, dreaming of New York City and bright lights and other girls dancing among flashing strobes, their trendy halters halting his breathing and startling him back into awareness. He realizes he’s been resting his cheek on his knuckle, though all he can really feel is numbness and a slight tingle as his nerves begin to increase to match the angle of the plane. The jolt of landing reawakens his arm and the buzzing bee inside his brain as he envisions with an almost painful smile a perfect dive into the great water before him. He is there and I am here, but my hair is dripping wet.

18

You wake up in the middle of the night and you hear an unfamiliar sound— a gasp, it sounds like, or a choking, a struggle. You are disturbed, yet unafraid, you are curious, but too lazy to leave your bed. Three deep breaths, and the sound stops, and you realize that you were just choking on your own words, your own thoughts trapped between your throat and your lips, the thoughts you always want to scream but only whisper quietly to yourself, the thoughts that are thunderstorms inside your head, clouding your vision and pushing you down to the floor, the thoughts that time after time break down the dams behind your eyelids but only in controlled isolation. You hear yourself gasping for breath, your breathing remnants of thoughts, your thoughts tough hands around your own neck, squeezing firmly until you fall back to sleep.

0

Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC

Boogey

You wake up in the middle of the night and you hear an unfamiliar sound— a gasp, it sounds like, or a choking, a struggle. You are disturbed, yet unafraid, you are curious, but too lazy to leave your bed. Three deep breaths, and the sound stops, and you realize that you were just choking on your own words, your own thoughts trapped between your throat and your lips, the thoughts you always want to scream but only whisper quietly to yourself, the thoughts that are thunderstorms inside your head, clouding your vision and pushing you down to the floor, the thoughts that time after time break down the dams behind your eyelids but only in controlled isolation. You hear yourself gasping for breath, your breathing remnants of thoughts, your thoughts tough hands around your own neck, squeezing firmly until you fall back to sleep.

25

Last night's storm woke me up in the middle of the night, and I don't know how but I think the lightning struck through my entire body. I felt my every muscle spasming with pulses from high-energy electric waves and I heard the omniscient thunder echoing between the cliffs inside my head. I can still feel the reverberations but all I can hear is emptiness; I don't know how the thunder found a way out but I'm going to keep scaling the walls until I find a door. I don't want to be enclosed in this box anymore.

0

Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC

Get me the **** out of here

Last night's storm woke me up in the middle of the night, and I don't know how but I think the lightning struck through my entire body. I felt my every muscle spasming with pulses from high-energy electric waves and I heard the omniscient thunder echoing between the cliffs inside my head. I can still feel the reverberations but all I can hear is emptiness; I don't know how the thunder found a way out but I'm going to keep scaling the walls until I find a door. I don't want to be enclosed in this box anymore.

1

I don't even want to bleed I just need to know I'm alive I'm freezing but there's no AC The air is so ******* still My stomach hurts so bad Acid is burning down my cheeks I couldn't dance around in my pjs if I wanted to.

0

Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC

Goosebumps

I don't even want to bleed I just need to know I'm alive I'm freezing but there's no AC The air is so ******* still My stomach hurts so bad Acid is burning down my cheeks I couldn't dance around in my pjs if I wanted to.

7

I’m riding waves of unhappiness With peaks of glimmering hope And troughs of utter disappointment-- I think I’m in love.

0

Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC

If this is love I don't want it anymore

I’m riding waves of unhappiness With peaks of glimmering hope And troughs of utter disappointment-- I think I’m in love.

4

How could shiny silver studs forced through my skin make me feel so good? “The power of rebellion,” I’ve read, can overthrow a government, but more importantly can overthrow one’s mind. Am I going crazy over the need to rebel? I have nothing to rebel against but I feel like I’m breaking boundaries guarding nothing but my own insecurity. So maybe shiny silver studs forced through my skin pierce my heart as well letting free all the demons I’m keeping locked inside.

0

Apr 11, 2014

Apr 11, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC

Pierced

How could shiny silver studs forced through my skin make me feel so good? “The power of rebellion,” I’ve read, can overthrow a government, but more importantly can overthrow one’s mind. Am I going crazy over the need to rebel? I have nothing to rebel against but I feel like I’m breaking boundaries guarding nothing but my own insecurity. So maybe shiny silver studs forced through my skin pierce my heart as well letting free all the demons I’m keeping locked inside.

23

No matter where I run, It seems to find me once again As if I have targets on my hips And lasers streaming from my cheeks, With satellites detecting my bones Drawing them out from beneath my skin, Convulsing my body as I leave the stratosphere, Leaving me stranded out in space, where I long to be. Weightless, a particle of nothing, Floating in zero-gravity, Free-falling above and beyond the cosmos.

0

Mar 23, 2014

Mar 23, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC

White Dwarf Post-Supernova

No matter where I run, It seems to find me once again As if I have targets on my hips And lasers streaming from my cheeks, With satellites detecting my bones Drawing them out from beneath my skin, Convulsing my body as I leave the stratosphere, Leaving me stranded out in space, where I long to be. Weightless, a particle of nothing, Floating in zero-gravity, Free-falling above and beyond the cosmos.

11

Who do you think you are? You can’t just inject yourself straight into my heart, then rip out the iv, and act like you didn’t cause any of my pain. You can’t blame me for feeling attached when you locked my heart to yours and threw away the key.

0

Mar 18, 2014

Mar 18, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC

I ******* hate you

Who do you think you are? You can’t just inject yourself straight into my heart, then rip out the iv, and act like you didn’t cause any of my pain. You can’t blame me for feeling attached when you locked my heart to yours and threw away the key.

11