moriah-harrod
American
Louisville, KY. / Something new. / / I'm not the Creator of stories, just the Messenger. / They are constantly floating around, some of us can see them.... / And some of us can wear them, feel them, write them. / / I needed a place to unleash these words.
She
had a feeling
in her gut
like punch
drunk
love
to the lights
that had bathed her
as a child.
She
had a notion
that tides
were turning
spinning round
dizzy with creation
but also
busy with
the death
of her faith.
She
was just Observer
to her fate
today
widdling away
with the blade
that had slain
so many before her.
She
also a warrior
also a storyteller
gave life
to those ideas
which she felt
surely
could keep her warmer.
She
also a psychic
also aware
of the manifestations
we bury below
we bare them below
the surface
she
found peace in
the darkness
that lay
within.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
you said "i can show you four days in which you died." i replied, "i didn't know you were watching." you sat down and put your face in your hands, i stood up and walked out.
some days you follow me with that camera of yours. i play the part; i look at the sky, i pigeon-toe my feet to look trendy for your lens. but i'm sick of swallowing your gray muck.
i need a change. i need out. those four days in which you say i died were the only days i've felt alive.
i will miss the vase in which you always place flowers. the blue and orange ones were my favorite. i told you that once, but you were too busy with your threads, knitting and knitting yourself away from me.
i'll also miss your hand, it used to feel so warm on my stomach. lately, though, lately, it's all so hazy. i can't remember the last time i really saw you.
so continue on, don't pause for me. in an hour i will be merely a stream of thought of a life you'd like to live. you never did have the guts to leave this place. i'm glad i do.
so hold on to your camera and the trendy things you crave.
i'm headed to a place where ideas, theories, concepts thrive, where the mysteries of life reign hard, and the petty place we lived is no more to me.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Grounded, because my head is not always in the clouds
Solid, because you can't always see straight through my hide
Broken, in just a couple places because glue always comes at least a little undone
But healthy, because I am aware, aware aware
Startled, because I can't prepare for all your quakes
Puzzled, because I can't absolve all your mistakes
Singled out, as I was in all my worst nightmares
And harmful, because like Iron Man I do not know my own strength
Crippled, because I cannot look away from you
Stifled, because you take away from everything in me
But magical, because I am a princess in a big pumpkin
And healthy, because I am okay with everything.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
you are
you are like a midnight breeze
calming,
threatening,
you calm me with your cold,
black air
bleak air
that seeps straight through
with a false hope, of what this could mean to me.
i am
i am but a thistle on this very large tree
waiting for my chance to grow and i
i can't seem to find a way
to mean anything to
a n y b o d y
won't you stay awhile?
just awhile.
we
together we
we could grow and rule this world
(we could r u n , you and i)
you and i, and never stop
and never stop never stop never stop never stop never stop
STOP.
until we find
that place where time stops
that place where
l o v e
.
d r o p s
.
.
d o w n
.
.
.
i n t o
.
.
.
.
f o r e v e r.
(safe)
this
this won't be
this won't be
(the end)
the sun always shines right after it's darkest and i
i believe
i believe we will spin this yarn into something more
and
we will
c . r . e . a . t . e
 
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your
your soul is so promising just a hatchling of a chicken i am with my head cut off running loose in the barnyard
barnyard lazy days are what i had and then i saw you and colors everywhere sprockets and gadgets and loose-runnings and shoes
shoes without feet only energy only anticipation exhilaration in our eyes looking feeling touching
touching toes with no shoes on cold toe warm toe is a good sensation a broadening horizon a war zone in my belly
my belly rises and falls in time with yours the sun is up and stars are hiding we slept soundly fingers crossed between the others and then we knew it was
it was everything we read about from old men's minds in starched collars with big dollars who dreamt these things couldn't have them sat in foyers with long pipes smoke filling lungs tears filling eyes
tears filling eyes because i can feel you and
and i can feel you in my nerves and i can see you in my skin and i can't look away from your soul.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
you were, you could have been, something grea--
something grey.
the knight -- no, the night, so black and shining, oh the knight,
never even knew what was coming --
what was coming undone -- wait, what was coming --
coming underneath the hide -
underneath your tide.
whisps and whirls, oh the world couldn't help you
couldn't tell you how to see --
oh the world couldn't tell you how to seem okay.
whisps and whirls, oh the world couldn't tell you
how not to seem so grey.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
there's a breeze in here.
perhaps it's that opportunity
that you just missed
that just whisked by you
as you were too busy studying
those little doubt plants rooted in your soil.
perhaps it was your future
rushing by you
in an attempt to avoid you
because you have this wonderful way
of ruining things
and it knows it could be so great.
perhaps it was the nightmare
that was waiting for you tonight
that changed its mind
because even nightmares know
we all deserve second chances.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Feet. Gnarled, scabbed and bent at the bone. Where‘s the beauty? I look at my toenails, my arms around my knees, as tears roll down and hit the sidewalk. The splash is exciting, and a thousand images come to mind.
I stand as I take in everything around me, savoring each breath, watching the colors enter my mouth.
The wind. It’s colorful here. Rolling rainbows of blues and greens and reds caress the buildings around me. It’s astounding when it blows.
Last week, the sun exploded into a thousand little ***** of light and they float around me now, serene and inert. Only when I walk do those in my path slowly twirl out of my way.
Slowly, slowly. As if they are moving through gelatin, as if they are slightly begrudged that I‘m counteracting their inertia.
I know that this is beauty. It is beauty that is this place. I would give up every element comprising my being to have this beauty with me when I leave, but I know I can’t overstay my welcome.
I place my foot onto a step behind me and I walk up. There is a balcony above me where I bring my camera. I sit on this ledge and I let my feet hang over and I try to capture everything this beauty is.
But it can’t be done. I have tried so many times to take this place, to put it in my pocket. But it can’t be done. No matter how many times I try, or how many ways I turn my camera, I can’t capture it.
I set the camera down after a couple minutes and I look to my left. A little ball of sun is floating beside my head. I stick a finger out to poke it and, as if by a magnetic field, it slowly pushes itself back when I am but a mere inch away. I try again, and fail. I put both hands out, cupping, as if to net it. I miss, and we play this game for a while.
But the suspense goes nowhere, and the ball of sun finally anticlimactically slips a few feet away. Disappointed, I stand up and walk slowly down the steps, my hand on the edge of the wall next to me.
The suns begin to lose their brightness, and I know it is time for me to go. I’m almost sad, knowing that I won’t see beauty like this until the next time I am able to return here.
Almost. This place is so great, so majestic, I can’t help but leave with a sense of pride, knowing I am privileged enough to come here.
With a final look back, I take in the glow of the setting ***** of sun against the background of the wind. I hesitate at the bridge, to put my hair back up into a ponytail. I slip back into my sneakers and I put on my lip gloss. I’m ready to go back to the side of the world from which I came.
I have to catch my breath as I prepare myself for the world I’m returning to. I breathe in deeply, and I look down, at my feet. Gnarled, scabbed, and bent at the bone. Where’s the beauty?
I take a reluctant, mournful step onto the bridge
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
Today I wrote to you. I haven’t seen you in seven months and sixteen days, as of 10 AM this morning. Only two weeks left. It seems unreal… It also seems that to write to you is all I have. So this morning I sat at my desk, and I opened my mind to all the things I could have said to you, but never thought to.
Do you remember the first day we met? It was in the café on Franklin Blvd. You were wearing your grey Fedora, a Hurley shirt, and those burnt sienna penny loafers we’d make so much fun of later.
I was at the table by the window, and I couldn’t help but notice you. Three of your fingernails were painted yellow, and you wore a bunch of beaded hemp bracelets on your right wrist. They looked Bohemian to me, but one day you explained the difference in that and Jamaican. You were singing a little tune while waiting in line. Later, you’d call it your “little ditty,” and you’d sing it all the time. You always said things like that, & I always fell in love with you more.
You ordered a vanilla cappuccino and a plain English muffin. I looked down at the same half-eaten muffin and cold cappuccino in front of me. I wondered why it seemed that I knew you already.
You sat down at a table a few feet away from me. You took off your penny loafers and took a handheld game of Yahtzee out of your pocket to accompany your breakfast. I was perplexed that you hadn’t noticed me staring yet.
Ah, there it was. You looked over at me. You must have sensed me by then. Immediately you smiled that half-smile you would always do, a mix between a condescending smirk and a boyishly cute pride. It was altogether endearing. You raised your eyebrows and nodded, as if we’d known each other for years. I admired your charmingly playful introduction. I would soon call you sweet pea.
………………
It was eight months ago today that you told me you were leaving. Your large brown eyes were full of promise and sorrow. I dropped my half-full coffee mug, and it spilled all over the carpet. The cat ran to lick it up, and was disappointed when the taste was utterly bitter. In other circumstances, I would have laughed and pointed it out to you, and we’d admire the cat’s zealous naïveté.
However, the cat had but a split-second of my stolid attention before my eyes met yours again, and I felt paralyzed. I asked what you meant, and you repeated yourself.
You told me of Jacob and all he meant to you. I cried when you told me how God and all his goodness took a sixteen year-old boy and his giant heart away from this world, away from his brother. You also told me how you’d avoided him for over three years before his death.
I was in disbelief that you’d never told me of him. You just looked down and said you’d had no room in your selfish green world for his coal-black sickness. Then you told me of his letter before he passed, asking one thing from each person he cared about. To help the world in a way they never would have done before, to somehow leave a legacy in his name.
My stomach felt sick. My baked-apple oatmeal felt at the tip of my tongue. How could this be happening to you? I instantaneously let go of any would-be grudge against you for being kept from the cruelly and sickeningly beautiful reality attacking your heart.
For I could see in your eyes that you were tearing your soul to shreds. You explained how in your peaceful aura had been a mask, a denial of the sickness slowly claiming your brother, waiting it out. For he couldn’t die. He would simply be better one day, and you were waiting for that. But, he did die. And you already knew what your mission would be.
You were leaving in two weeks from that day. You were flying to Africa with the church your brother had been devoted to since the diagnosis four years before this day. You’d spend eight months with the church members in Africa, working with children in a third-world country. Anything you donated would be in the name of Jacob Meyers.
You had talked about this with your family, and they agreed it would please Jacob and the legacy he had asked for. I at once stated that I was going too. My belittled heart broke cleanly in two when you told me how you had to go alone, that Jacob wanted a noble mission.
He had explained that he wanted someone to do selfless work in his name. How in order to give truly, you must give all. I knew you felt that you had to give the largest part, for you’d been the most selfish to avoid him. I let you keep your dignity and, broken, I accepted what you were doing. If anything, I loved you so much more for it.
Sorrowfully and dutifully we packed bags to attend his funeral. I never told you this, but I read four novels on sibling death. I wanted to take your hand in mine and feel what you were going to feel when you saw him laying there.
………………
In two weeks I will see you again. I will travel to the airport and pick you up and time will move once again. I often wonder how spectacularly, or marginally, you will have changed.
I have your loafers, your fedora, and your faded Hurley shirt ready to wear to the café where we met when you come back.
To my faux Jamaican sweet pea,
I miss you.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC