the-ember-lion - Hello Poetry

At night I now understand that the sky no longer lunges lies with it into the darkness, and the clicking of crickets cannot hush the stillness of despair. At night I allowed myself to drift in and out in and out of the lull of little lights or the fluidity of my little dreams drifting between serenity and sleeplessness as a cooling wind brushes my warm back and keeps me from simply falling. At night now I stare, As the darkness embraces The ever illuminated lights. Shielding them away from The dismal dirt down below. And at night, sometimes, I wish upon every star in the moonlit sky that you were among them.

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Feb 26, 2018

Feb 26, 2018 at 1:37 AM UTC

Death at Night

At night I now understand that the sky no longer lunges lies with it into the darkness, and the clicking of crickets cannot hush the stillness of despair. At night I allowed myself to drift in and out in and out of the lull of little lights or the fluidity of my little dreams drifting between serenity and sleeplessness as a cooling wind brushes my warm back and keeps me from simply falling. At night now I stare, As the darkness embraces The ever illuminated lights. Shielding them away from The dismal dirt down below. And at night, sometimes, I wish upon every star in the moonlit sky that you were among them.

25

She sweetened her tea with frosting. She trimmed her hair with shears. And all the while she felt the same she knew not better nor just as much. She laid her paper over wounds. Scratched her words with diamonds. Hoping Quietly To be better.

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Feb 26, 2018

Feb 26, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC

Not Quite

She sweetened her tea with frosting. She trimmed her hair with shears. And all the while she felt the same she knew not better nor just as much. She laid her paper over wounds. Scratched her words with diamonds. Hoping Quietly To be better.

15

I was born with thick skin and a heartbeat. My mother read bedtime stories that scared away the monsters below The rain fell heaviest on the one who held the umbrella above all the while a drizzle melted my skin. My face grew small, and my hair smoldered. And the funniest thing was that they concerned themselves with keeping the fire fed.

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Jan 8, 2018

Jan 8, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC

Maintaining a Flame (and the Included Dangers)

I was born with thick skin and a heartbeat. My mother read bedtime stories that scared away the monsters below The rain fell heaviest on the one who held the umbrella above all the while a drizzle melted my skin. My face grew small, and my hair smoldered. And the funniest thing was that they concerned themselves with keeping the fire fed.

15

I sit in my own embers watching the charcoal as it drifts and glides. And I watch I watch as others drown play burst And I feel the sizzle and the sputter of my skin that has long since melted away. And I wonder if they notice or if it matters that phantom pains plague my skin.

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Oct 20, 2017

Oct 20, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC

Validate Me, Please.

I sit in my own embers watching the charcoal as it drifts and glides. And I watch I watch as others drown play burst And I feel the sizzle and the sputter of my skin that has long since melted away. And I wonder if they notice or if it matters that phantom pains plague my skin.

17

I wanted to write a poem about the silence of a snowy walk. I wanted to talk about the feeling of cold air on clean skin and the serene silence when no cars dared to crunch the quiet. I wanted to write about something quiet. Something calming. Something that folded nicely into prose and laid out before me on paper. Instead, I put pen to paper and found anxiety along with that silent walk, and I remembered the opposite of what I wished to incite. I remembered instead the coldness sharpening some mascara clouded tears and a walk to escape. I remembered the cool air fueling an anger and the glimmer of hope that someone would rescue me from the cold that was melted away by a silent phone and continued footsteps up the hill with none behind. I remember a girl sitting under an outdoor roof, shielding her face from the falling ice, all the while realizing that escape would mean a return to fear. I remember that you have subtly ruined happy thoughts: a family vacation, Christmas-time, snowy walks, the summer sun's now dismal rays. And thought of all the whimsy, wonder, and excitement that left with the snowy days.

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Sep 13, 2017

Sep 13, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC

Non-poem Snowy Poem

I wanted to write a poem about the silence of a snowy walk. I wanted to talk about the feeling of cold air on clean skin and the serene silence when no cars dared to crunch the quiet. I wanted to write about something quiet. Something calming. Something that folded nicely into prose and laid out before me on paper. Instead, I put pen to paper and found anxiety along with that silent walk, and I remembered the opposite of what I wished to incite. I remembered instead the coldness sharpening some mascara clouded tears and a walk to escape. I remembered the cool air fueling an anger and the glimmer of hope that someone would rescue me from the cold that was melted away by a silent phone and continued footsteps up the hill with none behind. I remember a girl sitting under an outdoor roof, shielding her face from the falling ice, all the while realizing that escape would mean a return to fear. I remember that you have subtly ruined happy thoughts: a family vacation, Christmas-time, snowy walks, the summer sun's now dismal rays. And thought of all the whimsy, wonder, and excitement that left with the snowy days.

8

I cannot describe the anguish uncertainty frustration That I feel every motion step back wave That cycles through at the beach with a gush and a rush and a tumble and a blow that knocks me down only so I can stand back up and feel my knees crack beneath my own breath. And I look back towards the carnival and watch as people jump on the Ferris Wheel As if this were a cruel joke game ruse. And they still laugh as I circle back the same.

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Aug 19, 2017

Aug 19, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC

Circling

I cannot describe the anguish uncertainty frustration That I feel every motion step back wave That cycles through at the beach with a gush and a rush and a tumble and a blow that knocks me down only so I can stand back up and feel my knees crack beneath my own breath. And I look back towards the carnival and watch as people jump on the Ferris Wheel As if this were a cruel joke game ruse. And they still laugh as I circle back the same.

27

I guess this serves as a warning. To the friends and the loved ones members of an active social order wanting a life of something more than disorder. Poetry is not a breath. It is not an escape into a lesser abyss that leaves you scratch free. Or an opening and interesting guarantee. Instead it grabs inwardly at you. It coaxes the trolls from the deepest corners of the forest that you had long since banished and left behind and wanted to rid your mind of and never wanted to see again. The fire that had been stomped out is reborn. The crashing waves that broke the ship fight again. And poetry reopens the wounds that you had hoped would heal with time and with suppression that had once filled and consumed with aggression. Poetry is anger. Poetry leaves the poet drowning in a river of currents when it flows but out in the baking sun when it stops. The issue is for a poet to be happy with her work she must also feel the unhappy in her life.

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Jun 19, 2017

Jun 19, 2017 at 1:50 AM UTC

Writing a Poem (and the Included Dangers)

I guess this serves as a warning. To the friends and the loved ones members of an active social order wanting a life of something more than disorder. Poetry is not a breath. It is not an escape into a lesser abyss that leaves you scratch free. Or an opening and interesting guarantee. Instead it grabs inwardly at you. It coaxes the trolls from the deepest corners of the forest that you had long since banished and left behind and wanted to rid your mind of and never wanted to see again. The fire that had been stomped out is reborn. The crashing waves that broke the ship fight again. And poetry reopens the wounds that you had hoped would heal with time and with suppression that had once filled and consumed with aggression. Poetry is anger. Poetry leaves the poet drowning in a river of currents when it flows but out in the baking sun when it stops. The issue is for a poet to be happy with her work she must also feel the unhappy in her life.

34

There is a box titled "useless" that has been pushed into the deepest darkest loneliest areas of my brain. Where silver lights and crisp images force me to think of a better past and fuel a sense of want with the life I used to live and the people always are smiling and I am always smiling and the resolution is so clear you can barely tell it's fake But there is a box titled "memories" that my mom keeps in the room adjacent to the fire And inside are pictures that are grainy and yellowed and stained with caffeine and ***** and hot chocolate. The blurred image of my brother's smile hidden in his balloon face expanding and stretching and cracking. The worn candid of my mother looking upon me as a baby with eyes that scream for a breath and yellowed teeth to remind me this is no goal. It was simply there and now it is gone.

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Apr 23, 2017

Apr 23, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC

Old Photographs

There is a box titled "useless" that has been pushed into the deepest darkest loneliest areas of my brain. Where silver lights and crisp images force me to think of a better past and fuel a sense of want with the life I used to live and the people always are smiling and I am always smiling and the resolution is so clear you can barely tell it's fake But there is a box titled "memories" that my mom keeps in the room adjacent to the fire And inside are pictures that are grainy and yellowed and stained with caffeine and ***** and hot chocolate. The blurred image of my brother's smile hidden in his balloon face expanding and stretching and cracking. The worn candid of my mother looking upon me as a baby with eyes that scream for a breath and yellowed teeth to remind me this is no goal. It was simply there and now it is gone.

40

I am ready. Ready to be alone. Ready for the hug of myself to rush from the gaping mouths of those who hate me. who wronged me. who left me. I am ready. Ready to be enveloped. Ready to drift in a cool pond of dark rooms empty of those who judged me. who mistook me. who made me unwell. I am ready. For what else I do not know. But, what I do know is that to fill my own heart is far safer than to fill others.

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Apr 22, 2017

Apr 22, 2017 at 1:08 AM UTC

Ready

I am ready. Ready to be alone. Ready for the hug of myself to rush from the gaping mouths of those who hate me. who wronged me. who left me. I am ready. Ready to be enveloped. Ready to drift in a cool pond of dark rooms empty of those who judged me. who mistook me. who made me unwell. I am ready. For what else I do not know. But, what I do know is that to fill my own heart is far safer than to fill others.

21

And oh, the city was not left in the flames. the jungle and the savanna no longer rose tall and red. The Devil never liked them very much. He didn't appreciate that they have in to his fire and succumbed to his drought. For instead he was seeking vengeance. He was seeking something to hate him to scorn him. Something to fight. Instead, the jungle had let the Devil win and the savanna cared no more. So the Devil Did what he thought would cause the most pain. He left the burn but took the flames. He left the sting but took the warning. No one came to the rescue of the antelope and snakes. Instead, outsiders went along unknowingly. But little did the Devil know that out of the flames rose something strong. For the Ember Lion does not run from her pain. Instead, she carries its essence with her.

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Apr 18, 2017

Apr 18, 2017 at 2:13 AM UTC

A Name Explained

And oh, the city was not left in the flames. the jungle and the savanna no longer rose tall and red. The Devil never liked them very much. He didn't appreciate that they have in to his fire and succumbed to his drought. For instead he was seeking vengeance. He was seeking something to hate him to scorn him. Something to fight. Instead, the jungle had let the Devil win and the savanna cared no more. So the Devil Did what he thought would cause the most pain. He left the burn but took the flames. He left the sting but took the warning. No one came to the rescue of the antelope and snakes. Instead, outsiders went along unknowingly. But little did the Devil know that out of the flames rose something strong. For the Ember Lion does not run from her pain. Instead, she carries its essence with her.

40