Bisexual girl, confused by so much but understands
self misguided in youth, no
idea what to do forced into a life blurred
by own life choices, happy but
never fully always seeing what is desired
smiles at her daily unobtainable.
Why? Will change for others but not self something is
wrong there. Needs change but bored easy;
Fill the void with drugs that make you calm make you
happy, love. The
emotions of our lives. Okay. I’m
okay with everything that becomes
myself. Relax and go for a climb to the
Sun, and when the Sun sets in Thoreau’s
west, climb to the Stars, make a wish and seal it with
an unique kiss. I can sense your
aura before I see your flesh, radiant colors
as you approach, keep an open mind. Leave me
to my solitude but don’t forget me there, introvert that
needs to be surrounded by people: what a
contradiction. Interaction: essential to
all.
Being alive Being outside Being energetic
Being weird Being okay Being a Human Being
but always, Always Being Self.
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
*This poem is a creative response to
The Yellow Wallpaper
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.*
Alone.
Three years gone, all
Spent in this room.
I barely leave, I don’t try. I
Know I am desolate. I see it
And so do they.
I live, but I don’t feel alive.
Why eat? I don’t deserve food.
I don’t feel the need to indulge
in the senses. I merely don’t crave it.
Every night...
I stay up staring at the dimly lit Walls.
Every day...
I Lie awake while the sun peaks
Through the cracks in the blinds
Illuminating my only companion.
I gaze into the eyes of the Walls.
They stare back
Watching me struggle.
Laughing at my regression.
What is happiness? Joviality?
What is a gleeful day?
A happy thought? I
Wouldn’t know. Because I...
Well I am nothing. Nothing
To him, and nothing to you.
I am repulsive. Who could
Stand my reflection, it’s
Repugnant.
I have removed the mirrors
In the room that holds me
Captive. Like my self-esteem
They are shattered at my
Own gross reflection.
Gave up.
I gave up long ago,
I’m hopeless. Incurable.
I have become nothing. And
Like the rest, my Husband
Will leave me soon.
I don’t concentrate. I can’t.
I used to pulse energy of
Knowledge to minds that
Drank the gulps of enlightenment
Making their brain’s throb.
He tells me; I’m sick. I
Tell him; I’ll cope. He gives
Me a pill once a day,
I keep it under my tongue.
He repeats over and over…
‘I am a Doctor, and I will help you.’
He’s not helping me.
It’s for himself. His own self
Appearance. He wants to look
Proficient to his patients. If he
Cared he would listen to my words.
He would have heard the cries
In the script I taught and wrote.
My friends are gone, they
Left me to wallow in the
Eyes of the paint that covers
These Walls.
Sometimes I’m disillusioned
That people care when I speak,
Until I realize that we are all
The same. In small groups
That my Husband leads we talk
About our lives that are left in
Shambles…
We discuss our own
Worthlessness. Utter forlorn diction
To one another. We understand
The lexicons we produce. We are
All alike. We write our thoughts
But no one cares.
Together we look for Happiness,
But she hides from our group.
My Husband, the Doctor
He pries when we talk.
Pries for more. He questions me
About the Walls. He thinks they
May be alive, in the eyes of myself.
He thinks they talk, he thinks I talk
Back. But the Walls can’t talk;
The Walls can only judge.
They judge my dreadful appearance,
They judge my inability to change.
The Walls deem me an unfit wife,
A Mother of nothing, a friend of
No one, a tragedy to this World.
He thinks I misplaced my Sanity,
As if I’ve gone madd. I may see
No light in the day, for I am
Not blind, I am just alone.
I have made the attempts
But I have never set a plan.
I don’t have the capacity to
Project my future, I can only react.
Reacting is what I did... What I’ve
Done. I reacted to the Walls constantly
Judging me. I reacted to a three year
Aversion to the outside World.
I reacted to my reality.
The only way I knew how, I
Reacted. The Walls think they
Can judge me? Now the Walls are
Judged. It was your fault, your
Eyes pierced my soul, and
Stole the breath from my lungs.
I was not deranged, my faculties,
Were never vanished but my heart was.
I lost my smile, I lost my life... everything
I knew... I reacted. I left my body contained
To those Walls that judged my dreadful display,
I rose above and looked down... And I saw a smile.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
The little girl virtuous and naive sits in the emerald blades on the hill.
She dreams of remote landscapes while gazing up at the
perfect sapphire skies, the clouds make figures that
dance just below the heavens, she imagines a
milk shake, a bird, or maybe a snowman.
She wafts bubbles into the afternoon
globes of plum, indigo, gold, olive-
vibrant, mystifying. Drift away,
whisk through the wind and
come back down to burst.
She craves to soar away.
She constructs another
set of bubbles
and sees one
that is large
enough to
hold her,
she leaps
into the bubble
to float away into
eternity, up, and up,
circle after circle, toiled in
the wind the bubble brought her
too high-it bursts. She descended carelessly
back to the hill to hear her mother calling from a distance,
she hurries back if she wants to journey on the bubble again tomorrow.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 3:57 PM UTC
The silver drops
cascade down.
Golden, rouge, sepia;
dry tornado in the
ally between the two
bars, on the
windows keeping my
eyes wandering the
landscape. Locked in
not escaping the cold,
kept in the grotto
with my Falling heart.
Waiting for the warmth
to spring ahead
before we will frolic
in the navy abyss
while the iced flakes
graze our hair and fill
the land with a
blank slate.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
It whirls around touching my body
at all times, grazing my skin
leaving minor scratches behind.
Reaching down it rolls across my
back and onto my hand which is
pressed against my spine
I bend at the elbow and levitate the
hoop towards the sunbeams keeping
my skin warm.
Around my fingers one by one the
hoop spins in a perfect circle at
any speed I desire
I pull the hoop in front of me and
jump through bringing the hoop
back to the sky,
I whip the air and bring the hoop
into an isolation,
Zig-Zag until it gets closer
forcing the hoop to my elbow for a ride
until…
The Drop.
The hoop spins through the sky straight
up then down to my arm, back to my
hand and into another isolation.
All within one minute.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 5:08 PM UTC
Influenced by the Creekology*
The beer cans decorate my dulled land. I’m jaded by the un-bothered creekers. Cigarette butts speckle my ground like confetti on New Year’s Eve in NYC.
I flow rapid as I turn corners, slapping against rocks, carrying the beer cans of those too arrogant to bring back their own trash; allowing my minnows to swim in and out cutting their fins and scales on the aluminum forcing their crimson into my waters.
The tulips and daffodils that have been planted for me try to bud every spring, but are normally stomped down by visitors who stumble their way back missing my trails and making a ruckus waking my flowers from their slumbers.
At least I have my dedicated creekers. The ones who actually care about me and organize the cleanups, even though they know it was not them who left their old cups to fester in the sun. Nor were they the group that sharpied my rocks with names and poorly drawn pictures.
I have been here for years to assist the new college kids to finding their batch of friends. I have seen many come and go but I have always taken the satisfaction of knowing I am helping young adults when they need a place to be left to their solitude.
I watch the poets drinking their beers jotting down their thoughts it notebooks that will never be read, the photographers that dip around me and take their pictures.
They hang around and listen as the warm breeze rustles the earth around me until the time comes where they pack up Their trash in their back packs and turn to walk up my paths, just leaving the other filth behind them.
And for that, the ones who appreciate me
are even still
no better
than anyone else.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 8:31 AM UTC
At 4:30 on a Saturday the only
light is from the hovering orange
globes that vast across the evening
trails. the night is brisk, it forces a
unyielding beam on my face. the
snow scratches against itself
like sand on the bottom of your
bicycle tires screeching across the
blacktop on blistering summer day at 2.
the children are giddy as they approach the
ski lift levitating them to the top of
the “big hill”, their anticipation gnaws at
their fingertips and toes. the perfectionist
parallel down the trail marked “black-diamond”,
we carve our way down to the point that marks
the end, “i’ll win this time” and zip away into the
deep of the horizon, and over the daunting cliff.
the flakes float on down and penetrate my
goggles, they hit my eyes like needles, the
wind whips by like a slap from nature,
later we will rest together when the
mountain closes, your hand in mine keeping
each other warm from the day, but at 4:30
we will be in our own separate worlds
gliding across the ******** fresh powder.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
You are a thought, sometimes simple,
other times complex. You lay with
me those sleepless nights embrace
me with warmth as your arms wrap
around and feel my somber breaths. You
are never alone, others constantly
bouncing off of you like rain drops on the
pavement, but you are happiest when left
to your solitude. Your powers are sublime
and pure. The unpredictable nature of your
being. You get drunk off of the thriving
knowledge that fills your plush
background. You need others around to
prove your own self worth, your only
sense of value based on the triumphs and
failure of others. You are a thought, you
come and go, but no matter what you
mean a lot to at least one person.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
He sat on his bed as though waiting my arrival
his hard stomach exposed, strong arms ready to hold
me for the evening I stood in his legs and dropped
to my knees to hold his *** in my hands I grasp him
with a gentle grip I kiss him softly
at first, then my tongue begins to
wander in every direction tempting him to do
more. He forces himself deeper; his back is wet
to touch, there’s sweat beading off his forehead as though trying
to escape with utter excitement. my lips are wet with
salt, left over Burt’s Bees, cigarettes, and beer
he shrieks out a moan, I know he likes that.
A volcano is beginning to erupt,
he holds my curls in his palm, I feel his sweaty hands he
lets out a loud groan of satisfaction,
his face is awkward, his nose is scrunched, his eyes are slits,
he faces up towards the ceiling his mouth opening more
as his satisfaction grows greater.
An explosion of salty, sweet milk fills my mouth and
I swallow for his pleasure.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC