I woke up today,
17 for the last time
feeling normal, nothing special, nothing different,
not really.
A bitter nostalgia, maybe
Maybe the sky won't be as resplendent in an adult's eyes,
no longer as brilliant or bursting with color at ripping seams of laughter
Anyway
I woke up today, still 17
Fumbled around for my pants, threw sweaters aside as I anticipated the intransigent rain
Didn't do my makeup because I didn't care,
Ran out the door with chocolate as a spontaneous breakfast because
my metabolism flew on the wings of my brilliant youth
and I thought I'd never die.
Got to class at 8:02, there was a guest speaker on environmental law and
I ripped out my eyelash
It was an accident but
The ghost of the pain crushed my eyelids for the next period
I painted a peacock in art class, smeared goldenrod across its cashmere feathers
Broke off more blocks of chocolate
Sat next to an ex, so young, thinking that this was
my first and last great love
and still
foolishly hoping for another chance
In band, filled with inexpliciable anxiety about
a competition that didn't even matter
and I'd thought
in life, the biggest worry that I would ever have was
an oboe performance
in the rain.
Laughed until I cried in English class,
Debating on the merits of design and scrolling more miles on my phone than I'd ever walk
Went home and ate ramen so spicy my eyes watered with painful fire, looked at fireflies and realized
as surely as I knew the skies were blue
that one day I would die
and everything that I knew to exist and to be true
would be gone
and everything that made me and myself would vanish
and I would never wake up again
and being 18 was only another step towards
being scattered to the wind in grey soot, over the mountains of China
ambrosia on my lips and nothing in my eyes
heart loud in silence and fierce in stubborness
Not willing to beat
one
more
time.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
A cashier in aisle 23, Lane 4,
Hair pulled back into an ***** bun, flyaway strands of hair framing her face,
Eyes adorned by shaky eyeliner, (It must've taken her years)
The hands that grab the groceries are trembling
with the use of age and alcohol,
Still wishing at 30 for that Prince Charming who ran away with another princess,
Still wishing she could be somewhere else in life.
And you thank god that you are not like that cashier, a slight feeling of guilt twisting your chest
as you walk away to the car.
You don't know what the hell Lady Gaga's lips look like, (or care)
but if someone said that your lips looked like her,
it would be the first priority to see what they looked like
Seeing if your lips would fit the 'standard' of society,
40% acquired self obsession and 100% U s e l e s s E f f o r t
A father who thinks that winning is the minimum requirement
A mother whose vision of a perfect child is to be of metric height and square body weight, all charted down to the exact millimeter
A testimony you were born required to say
A task you were burdened with on the day you were born.
And you fulfill it.
You run, chasing past those days of tears and desperation-
ignoring that self who still cries out for mercy and pity
You stumble past, clasping hands over your ears and shouting until your voice cannot be heard,
drowning all useless prose and beauty
Falling, falling, over and over.
The clear and twisted road has thrown you off many times
Into the grass, where even the slightest prickle of dew
(Such a translucent silver)
feels like the cold desolation in a thousand years of vivid monochrome.
Now, walking back to your car
Thinking of what a brilliant, triumphant life you have lead,
You thank god that you are not like that cashier,
Rotted away at the age of 20
Fabric of skin dulled with desperation and time
Wishing moronically for something premeditated only in her own mind
(How many bottles of wine and cigarettes did it take to chase away the pain?)
"Tranquility is a drug", someone had once said, inspecting immaculate nails by the illuminated window.
Lament and Languish were words you never learned, after all.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
A mother who listens to soft classical Mozart
Reclined against the soft, worn pillow from ages
slender fingers easily flicking through a catalog,
while a father is hunched over
in the cold den, racked with coughs and pains, trembling fingers trying to hold on to the metallic foil of medicine.
And a child, barely 4
playing with stuffed animals on the couch
a victim of Tay Sach
A car, and a windowpane, that have both seen too much,
ragged advertisements fluttering in the wind,
advertising a movie coming out yesterday,
A burger shop ad that had already long closed,
and deals long gone.
The downtown urban forest, turned into a junkyard
full of scraps of rusted silver and infected bronze.
A bystander who can do nothing but laugh
as a boy's nose gets crushed in,
a ****** lip,
A swollen, purple eye
A boy of 18
who is still waiting for her somewhere
to see her colored smile
and eyes of glass
bitter and emotionless, glazed over with sterling silver,
who has a family, siblings,
who is now turned into nothing but a ragged playtoy for the sick, sick entertainment of others
A broken air conditioner that can do nothing but clack clack clack over and over again, metal blades spinning vainly for nothing,
while a broken family is screaming in the other room,
and a child is crying, hands to his face, covering his eyes
as a father hits his wife, knocks her against the sharp, tiled kitchen counter,
and the screaming intensifies, accompied by the hurtful insults that are thrown at each other-by the father and the teen.
and still the air conditioner goes on and on
oblivious to nothing.
A world that is so breathtaking and cruel at the same time
where little, insignificant families are torn apart without a second thought,
where the 'strong' prey on the 'weak'
Where the most beautiful sprawling cities turn into rejected second handers just because of a rumor
And,
A mother who listens to soft classical Mozart
Reclined against the soft, worn pillow from ages, ages ago
full of tears and stiches
slender fingers easily flicking through a catalog, searching for the most effective medicine, eyes flickering in worry
while a father is hunched over
in the cold den because
he doesn't want to risk spreading his sickness to anyone else
racked with coughs and pains, trembling fingers trying to hold on to the metallic foil of medicine.
Working hard to support his family because the economy is going down again
And a child, barely 4
playing with stuffed animals on the couch
a victim of Tay Sach,
dead at 6.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
Her smile is beautiful
but it trembles ever so slightly
so that you can hardly see it
an autumn leaf, in the middle of fall
deciding whether or not to break from the branch
Her laugh is tentative
deciding whether or not to really let go
and her laugh is shaky
a small accidental vibrato in her throat
that catches its tremor ever so slightly
And her words wash over you,
accompanied by the cool breath of Altoids
and a leaf of the iceberg salad that she had for lunch
(no dressing please)
When she walks into a room
the air stills
not because she holds presence,
but merely because she lacks it
a rippling shadow that's gray and silver
against the dark ebony of the chalkboard
Her shoulders are ***** and upright
stiff and still
like a solider's stance
when standing at 'attention' in the middle of a battle
with the same dead expression
of seeing too much
that you want to go blind because of that
with the same stiff arms
that grip a pencil tightly
so that the whites of her knuckles are prominent and jutting
and you fear that the wood will snap under her detached temper
But her tears are not beautiful
because frankly,
sadness is not beautiful in itself
when it's on the page that you're reading
further ahead, maybe
but not in the present
And this is a girl who strives to be normal
without even looking up the definition
who eats skimpy iceberg salads at lunch with friends who all
have pizza and fries
who constantly buys Altoids so frequently that she has a whole
box in her room full of empty tins
who is more aware of herself than anyone else
and this is a girl
who is insecure
A girl who loves without return
A girl who can laugh and cry and be just fine the next day
A girl who swears on a god that she doesn't necessarily believe
A girl who feels something when a boy smiles at her just the right way
A girl who is you
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
I wanted to believe.
Thinking that everything that I doubted was for the sake of my useless, worrying mind-
Even though I had a feeling-
That those beautiful days would end-
Decorated with the soft sprinkles of everlasting snow-
Topped with a little light happiness,
I thought and wished that those days would go on forever.
I wanted to think that you were being truthful,
To have no doubt for you-
Even though I had a feeling that you were going to leave me.
Flying into the dark abyss, eyes closed just like a fool’s
The soft sound of sighs pass me
And I can do nothing but try to touch them
The bitterness of coffee is too cruel
For my taste buds,
And I always have to add spoonfuls of sugar, upon sugar,
While you look on, laughing.
Those broken shards of glass falling
I am ashamed to say that too scared for myself,
I didn’t pick them up,
Didn’t rebuild them into what it was rewinded
Running together, the earbuds in my ear kept falling off until you
Told me that it would be easier
To get headphones instead.
Going to store together,
And shopping
Those times were meant to go on forever, really.
That time in winter
Where we lay together in front of the fireplace
Silent, together
I remember thinking-
If this is all, it’s enough.
When you, with nothing but a sad look
Fell off the cliff of sanity
I could do nothing but cry.
Cry useless tears
To bring back the past that would never come back.
Why am I so alone?
How did I not know?
The screams that those silent eyes held-the little spark of pleading and worry in those conflicted pupils-
How did I, so good at reading people, not read you?
It is as if the radio station changed,
Into a different FM, not available in this country.
Why can’t I tune in?
Why are your screams silent?
Is the mute button on?
If so, where is the volume control?
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Something without a definition, I guess,
is one of the most curious things about this world.
Something that isn't in the dictionary of words that overwhelm and pour
over and over and over again
in your mind, like a water spout
cannot be stopped sometimes-
You just have to accept that
It's amazing, really.
How many words that you cannot simply "define"
Like 'sweet' 'salty'
and
'sadness'
words that are in your brain, but no matter how you dig and uproot the word
it's not there anymore.
Leaves, trees, and infallible, useless things
they all make up the world as we know it,
millions of little things upon little things
sugar crumbles and salt sprinkles
upon salty and sweet caramel sundaes.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Before I saw you,
I thought that angels didn't exist.
Before I saw you,
I thought that hope was just a empty word, with a meaning that was ripped out of the dictionary in my mind.
Before I saw you,
I was lost, confused, wandering off the road that everyone at least, seemed to be on,
Seemed to know what a road was,
Even if they were on the "wrong one" as my preschool teacher used to call it but I think I was the only one who raised my hand in class and said-
"Teacher! That doesn't make sense!"
Before I saw you,
Music was just notes on paper,
Something for me to hum and string along on the viola.
Before I saw you, stories were just stories,
And not keys to worlds beyond my fairest imagination.
Before I saw you,
The key to the word "love" was locked
Thrown somewhere on a ***** train track that you fearlessly went on and saw and you brought the key back to me saying with a smile on your smudged face
"Here. I think this is yours."
Before I saw you,
I think I was just living life for the sake of living, just eating for the sake of surviving,
Just studying for the sake of pride,
Until I met you.
When I met you,
The world had color.
A fierce rouge for sunset and lipstick for women
a dark hue that wasn't exactly "black as night" as they called it
A gleaming, neon green that was the color of the hideous jumpsuit you wore for track just once
When I met you,
The word myself had a different meaning, and the broken dictionary that was in my mind fell apart.
When I met you,
I learned the meaning of catching all the Pokémon in the game Pokémon Emerald that I always borrowed, but never returned, but you didn't care, did you?
(Oh look the word Pokémon is in spell-check)
When I met you-
I learned how to write poems-
Mainly because you dragged me to that poetry writing class that you always went to.
When I met you,
I thought, beautiful
Infallible
Unbreakable
**Until the day when you left me
Here alone in the dark.**
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Today I got a new sketchbook with an embossed leaf on the cover-
saying-"Nature's Best."
And the inside was so white and clean
I was scared to draw in it
to mar the beautiful pages with the unforgiving
mark of a pencil.
Thinking that I wasn't worthy enough,
I didn't deserve
"Nature's Best."
The most beautiful song I've ever heard was sung by a German Choir,
and I remember thinking-
that maybe, German is a beautiful language after all
hidden only under the angry tones
of fighting and ugly
hurtful words.
Vogel im Kaff, it was called.
I'm not sure, but when I used Google translate-
it said-
"Word not found."
Maybe it wasn't in German after all.
And the people who tell me-
"Ugly."
"Fat."
"Why do you even live, anyway?
It's not like you deserve it."
I know. I know that I'm not worth anything
But sometimes, I actually catch myself in the mirror and think-
I look nice
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for thinking that. I'm sorry for hoping,
for believing.
I'm sorry.
And you know that feeling?
When you're in public
frantically searching for the right chord
on a piano song.
Sitting a spotlight undeserved
Playing for people who don't need to hear this
"music"
Like cracking open a egg and accidently mixing the yolk with the white
when you're trying to make a crème cake.
A desperate feeling that's sort of scary
because your brain knows that there's no way out.
I wish all minds had a delete button.
Throwing myself into learning different languages-
I thought that if I could speak
German, French, Italian-
then I would be exalted.
That somehow,
all of that would change my personality,
Who I was.
Guess we all have a "no refund" tag when we're born.
The type of people who-
"Belong everywhere, but don't fit in"
and the type who
"Don't belong anywhere-but fit in anyway-"
Which type am I?
A leafed page of the book,
folded over to conceal ***** words.
You know, if you look at a picture long enough,
what you once thought was beautiful will begin to peel and fade
exposing its unperfected innards.
If it's that scary to look at something already "satisfying"
what would it be like to look at something not even close to perfection?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
I've only written poems about love.
Most of them-
filled with angst, overflowing
not unlike
a flooded river,
maybe the Nile
in spring.
I don't really use lipstick,
or mascara for that matter,
because makeup,
is just something to hide behind
a shield that people are trying to cast off
every day.
writing a poem without inspration is like
trying to describe a chocolate eclair
without taste buds.
Maybe that's why
this is so hard to write.
But I had pleaded for another wish,
on a birthday candle, one day in May
Blowing the little flame out,
I rode my hopes on that little spark,
making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes.
Maybe I missed one,
I'm not sure-
because that wish still hadn't come true, to today.
The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear
my only comfort
against this dismal highway.
And my earbuds are unbalanced
the right one louder then the left
and no matter how much I tilt my head
it's still uneven
Someone once told me
"Tears taste like the ocean"
that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying,
"Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow."
I held that as an act of kindness,
one of the few close to my heart.
The taste of coffee is too **** bitter.
Yet I crave it,
holding its warmth against my hands
and blowing the excess steam off.
Starbucks, in winter.
When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered
do angles really have halos?
do devils really have horns?
Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all?
"Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut
and getting up to get another book
called
Lord of the Flies
The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now
4:45 a.m in the morning
I couldn't sleep.
So I check my email-
it says
You have no messages.
For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone.
I wonder
if people these days would ever write something,
just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews
or compliments
of others.
I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact,
writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments,
telling me
"You're worth it"
and
"amazing."
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Perfection,
is an illusion, created by the mocking
sanity of the people
in this newspaper world.
Fairytales were something made up as well-
for the entertainment of children,
to enjoy their life,
their innocence
before reality took it all away from them.
No matter how far I chased the rabbit,
I was not Alice in Wonderland.
And even though the glass slipper fit,
I was not Cinderella.
My Hogwarts letter didn't arrive either;
when I was eleven.
And foolishly, at that time,
I cried.
I cried because my dreams were not real,
and that something this good could not exist in this world.
But-
I do not regret crying.
I cried for everything little in the world-
For my broken pipe that would never shoot water out in a straight line-
For my microwave that would always keep the food cold,
and the refrigerator that would always keep the food warm,
and for the 'tap tap' of the lady's heels
from the apartment above mine.
People say that heaven is a beautiful place
full of anything you could ever imagine.
Would it have all my dreams there, then?
In a plastic goody-bag, prehaps.
A certain one dished out to every person-
Angels looking left and right without a care for identity.
I hate it when my phone gets too warm.
I hate it when my favorite books get wrinkled.
I hate it when I lose my wireless mouse.
I hate it when the internet takes too long to load.
I hate it when the tempature of the room is either too cold, or too hot for my liking.
But I love all those hatreds.
I love how my phone gets too warm, warming my hands up in winter.
I love how my favorite books get wrinkled, so I can lovingly patch them up again.
I love how my wireless mouse always gets lost, because then I have an exuse to buy a corded one.
I love how the internet takes too long to load, because then I can go eat while I'm waiting.
I love how the tempature gets too cold or too hot, because then I can stick an ice cube on my forehead, or bundle up with my favorite scarf in winter.
My mother always told me to be mysef, that I was perfect just the way I was-
I tried,
but all my sentences from that point on would come with a stutter.
"D-Did you hear?"
The voice of the piano that strums so gently beneath my fingers,
I love that sound.
It was the first time I could be sure-
if music had a face
it would smile,
teasingly,
desparingly,
at me.
And now I'm listening to "Light up the Sky" by YellowCard,
lying on my bed and thinking how much the lead singer
looks like Draco Malfoy.
I love the way poetry sometimes has a shape,
either a diamond,
or a heart.
And I am stunned, when I see those-
In fact, I saw one yesterday,
it was a tiger,
coliling around spairled trendles of
black and white
words.
I wonder how words move people to tears.
they're just words, anyway.
Nothing that would exist if humans weren't here.
but I love the way that I can actually cry
when I hear a beautiful piece of poetry.
I would say 'thank you thank you'
over and over again,
but I couldn't speak for the sound in my head.
And the stereotypical, rentless movies,
on sale-
half price!
at BlockBuster,
I bought them all,
just for the sake of spending some money,
I think.
And I watched them all, alone in the night with nothing but a bowl of popcorn by my side.
They were colorful, crazy, wild
And I drank in that feeling, throwing up my arms
with a freedom that I have never felt before.
I love writing poetry,
because words are truly beautiful.
And I love reading over my old poems, and scoffing at what I thought was eloquent before.
Because that means,
I have grown.
Something Infallible, Like Eternity,
That's a good title.
I love the clicking of keyboard keys, feeling the notch of F and J under my fingers.
And I love this world,
for all its imperfections and mistakes,
becuase then there can always be something better after it.
After all, if you're at the top, all you can do is fall.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC