She sits
In softsilentsun
And dreams -
I was a
Lawyerfarmerfriend-
I had a dollar,
Two dollars,
More
Dreams- dustlungs
Dusthair
Dusttears
Leaving snail-trails down
Down
Down
Jutting, hollow
(empty) belly,
Snakesquirmsorrow.
I-She-He-They
Came;
Wanted food money clothes.
Turned away: nothing here
Worth taking
Just me
And my daughtersonbabylife
Sitting
In the empty dust-world.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
You see me standing here,
don’t you?
No, don’t go.
Pale, freckled, blue-eyed
What might you think of me,
Sharpie-scribbled skin, pixie cut,
strange necklace and faraway look.
See me, average height, in a flower crown.
(Haven’t slept for six days.)
I’ll tell you something; I thought I had wings when I was younger;
not anymore.
But back-
You see me. I know you do, now.
you think to yourself
(note: not to anyone else)
she’s not like us,
not really.
You see, we’re all clear glass.
And she, she’s just too vibrant,
unusual. A firework
in our masterpiece.
She can’t belong.
I know that.
Really.
But listen. Just for a
minute.
Not to me, not yet.
Listen to the world.
Now lay down.
Do you feel the world tipping under you?
Now close your eyes.
Do you feel the sun on your upturned face?
Tell me you can’t hear the faint
and softest feather-breath of wind
or the subtle stream of bird-song.
now sit back up – I’m going to tell you
something.
You’re right.
no, I’m not glass –
I’m not that easily shattered, at least not anymore.
but I’m not a eccentricity, either.
I’m more of a…
compass of a girl,
a feather,
a catcher of dreams.
I may not be like you, but that’s okay.
Maybe I don’t want to be.
Maybe I’m better off with my pixie cut,
my Sharpied skin and peculiar ways.
And my memory of wings
brushing against my back.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
You thought I couldn't hear you, in the next room over
Body limp with nightmares
Pale and crippled
With memories
You think I couldn't see your agony, your feeble flails
Hear your searing cries
But all your happy words, your
Empty eyes betrayed
Your frantic
Masquerade
You never could let them see just how vulnerable
You really were
In your bedroom's prison comfort
You made red
On your arms, your thighs
Where you thought nobody would see
You tailspin, shatter.
And still you kept your head high
Couldn't let them see you cry
You looked sad when you thought nobody was watching
I knew what that meant,
But somehow I thought it would get better
What else could I do?
By morning you were gone
And I was numb and drowning
I guess it's how you felt.
I understand.
I'm sorry.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
When young, we were forgiving.
Clasped hands, boy and girl together, the world spinning in
blurry colors,
Dawns and twilights indistinguishable from the next whispered
moment.
Then the years took over
Groups and cliques formed and disintegrated like ash in the wind
Thoughts, feelings. All pulling you along with them, out of control.
The hands loosened their grip and you drifted
Across the starry sky like diamonds,
Light and lifted softly to the wind.
Until anchored, a vessel at rest once more.
Creaky, even rotten in places, your sails still strong.
Your ropes take hold and drift you slowly back into your blurry,
Spinning universe, where hands were once clasped, boy and girl
together. Man and woman together.
And when the world grows dark, when there are thorns where there
were once roses,
We will soar into the sky clasping hands, together.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
I wasn’t made for these times
I revel in meadows, in fragile flowers of wavering petals
I lay under starry, shattering skies
Vulnerable,
Gasping
Feeling the weight of the world on my heart
I wasn’t made for these times
I live for hidden pockets of untouched soil
And brushing my fingertips against the tips of untrimmed grasses
I was made for candlelight
And fresh figs from a sprawling bush
Pungent thyme still smelling of dirt
And not concrete
I was made for azure skies
Overgrown roses
Imperfect
With thorns
I just wasn’t made for these times
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
My dad drove by, picking me up from school.
His ford Mustang just reached its twentieth year,
And is peeling along the side
It makes a roaring sound as we fire it up and speeds off with the smell of exhaust.
The top goes down, black canvas that folds neatly into the trunk.
That’s how we ride. With the top down and wind
Through our hair, blowing his hat and my headband into the back seat.
Losing things is always a hazard.
We drive until we reach a rusty sign
And hanging brown streetlights on their last gasp.
I can see white porches and picket fences,
And rocker chairs on the sides.
But we don’t stop here.
We keep on driving, tuning the radio to old country songs
And drive on, watching as stores give way to houses,
Houses to cottages, cottages to shacks, shacks to land, land to desert.
And we’re in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt road that stretches off into the distance
Surrounded by cacti and dirt
The wind is dry and hot, and I feel my mouth watering.
We step out and watch as the sun goes down,
Down below the horizon,
Watching as the last rays shine red and light up the sand like a glowing candle
Sunsets are best in the desert.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Dear girl,
Your words are carefully
Chosen
Leaves on a twig
Writhing
Drifting
Hitting the silence
With a loud
Clunk
Dear girl,
Your shouts are
Forks
On a porcelain shard
Screeching
Burst-your-eyes silver
Obscenities
Shattering the hearts
With a loud
Clank
Dear Boy,
You whispered words drift,
Moth-wings
On an outstretched arm
Swishing
Soft-swirled-grey
Plucked from the wind
In a breath of desperation
Traveling a thousand miles
In a single spoken feather
Dear Children,
Your words hold meaning
Power
To break a heart or mend it
To nurture
Or to writhe
So speak.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
This city with its myriad eyes
watches, waits as petals with their waxen glow
And leaves unfurling
Come, upturned, to the daylight’s harsh glow
This city with its myriad eyes;
This city with its myriad eyes sees all
The rusty blue beetle with chewed out seatbelts
Swerving, screeching. Belonging to the ashes of
This glowering city, watching night and day.
This city with its myriad eyes
Will wait
Rigid, unyielding
As the plebian townspeople scurry like ants
Under their magnificent creations
Condemning you to an unknowing fate
In a glass cage
You say you are innocent, girl?
This errant city has seen you
In the ponds, idly laying beneath the willows
Above the lily pad
And underneath the heavy sky.
This city with its myriad eyes
Has seen you
Trailing your fingers along the river’s lip
Barely leaving dwindling wakes
For trailing frogs behind
This city with its myriad eyes
Knows your innocence is a veil
For your harsh playfulness
Quite the crime, my young girl
Says this city with its myriad eyes.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC