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Apr 2015 · 993
The Writer
Bianca Custodio Apr 2015
I was never much of a writer
I never knew how it was to
Rearrange letters in the alphabet
To form various splashes of color
That create one big masterpiece
I was never much of a writer
I never knew how it was to
Stretch my hands out
And be able to reach for words and phrases
I can use to build and create and make
Into a story I can call my own.
Instead the words and the letters
Looked like jumbled puzzle pieces that didn't quite work together,
They looked like stars
In the form of failed constellations
Mismatched brightness and color
I didn't get any of it
Sometimes I think I was too dizzy
From this 360° spin that we call life
See, I was never much of a writer
But I tried
I tried mix and matching words that I thought would make sense
But they never did
I tried picking the best flowers
For this bouquet of letters and symbols I tried making
But all I ended up with was
Withering words and
Misspelled petals
I tried building
Lego after lego after lego
But the pieces still refused to fit
So the towers fell; crumbled
Again and again and again
Reminding me of a mistake I made years ago
Again and again and again
Like a song on repeat
And it's times like these when I wish life was pencil on paper
So that I can erase, erase, erase
All the parts of me I didn't like
But I never had enough strength
To pick up a pen and create.
I couldn't.
I tried lighting candle upon candle
Of fragments of stories I thought I understood
So that I could see what the darkness up ahead contained
But all I ended up with
Was a forest fire
And the next thing I knew,
Everything was burning
My home
My papers
My dreams
My desires
My pride
My stubborn head
My rebel heart
And this flimsy, failed wrist of a writer of mine
Everything was burning
And everything that burned turned into ash
Disappeared into smoke somewhere above our heads
So that we can no longer see them
And I finally understood
I was never a writer
I was never the writer
I was never the author
Or the editor
Or the storyteller
Or the poet
I was never supposed to write in the first place
So I stopped writing.
And I let The Writer write
This huge masterpiece of a story
That we all call life
And ever since then,
The words made sense
The flowers never withered
The Legos all fit
The candles stayed lit
And life
Has never been more awesome
A bit of my testimony in a poem. Jeremiah 29:11. Made on March 6, 2015.
Dec 2014 · 4.8k
fit in
Bianca Custodio Dec 2014
A puzzle piece doesn't fit
into a place that isn't theirs

So stop
Trying to fit
Into places you don't
Trying to squeeze
Into spaces you don't
Fit in
Altering yourself;
The pieces that make
Just to fit into skin
That isn't

Because no matter how hard you try

A puzzle piece never fits
into a place that isn't theirs

Believe me,
I've tried
be yourself <33
Dec 2014 · 783
Bianca Custodio Dec 2014
It should've taken me seconds
To unhook this rusting bracelet
It should've taken me seconds
To just take it off and let it go

But instead I took hours

Hours fiddling,
So desperately
To free myself from its grasp
Itching to get it off
I sit, tugging
On the charms weighing me
Down by each passing second

I don't understand
It should've taken me seconds

But instead I took days

Days choking
On the charms that used to be
My wrist is scratched, broken
My hands are red, tired
Eyes focused and
Mind set
On letting go
of the one thing pulling me down

I want it off

So why
Why can't I do it

I don't understand
It should have taken me seconds
I found this in my notes and almost forgot I was the one who wrote it hahah I vaguely remember writing this at around 2am
Dec 2014 · 432
if this poem
Bianca Custodio Dec 2014
if this poem was glue
it would do anything but stick
if this poem was tape
it would do anything but put together
what was ripped apart
if this poem was a band-aid
it would do anything but patch up
the wounds you've left behind
But if this poem were blocks
it would do nothing but build;
build walls around this fragile heart to
keep you out

If this poem was you and me
it would fall apart immediately
written on December 1, 2014
Nov 2014 · 718
What It Is Not
Bianca Custodio Nov 2014
On the crisp corners of the first page, fingers
Each character, each line
In the world made up by human mind
Heart beating, mind racing
As each page is turned

By the beauty of each and every word
Printed on paper as rough as skin
Like paint splattered on an empty canvas
Creating a whole different world, where
“Every single dream is achieved,
If you believe”

Is just one step away
One small puddle to hop over, or
One whole ocean to cross
Just one little stretch away
From holding it in between your very palms
And tucking it in the pocket of your jeans

You smile
Everything went perfectly
The main character achieved her goal
With just a small puddle to hop over

With a flutter in your chest, you close the book
Sitting back, sighing
“And they all lived happily ever after”
The end

But no, it isn’t
In fact, it’s nowhere near it

See, books, stories, movies, they are stamps
Stamps dipped in thick, dark blue ink
Pressed on the pages of our hearts
Permanently marked

See, there is influence
In each story, each plot
Every one of them has power
Yes, even the bad ones

Looked at as role models
Each one of them has power
Yes, even the bad ones

People read to escape reality
To run away from the truth of the life they live
From the problems, the heartache
When that shouldn’t be the case

Because a book is not a ship
That will keep you floating above the ocean
It is not a ship
That will bring you to that beautiful piece of land you see on the horizon
No, it is not a ship
That will keep you from ever caressing the waves,
From feeling the salt water in between your very fingers
Because whether you like it or not
You belong underwater

You are a fish,
A whale,
A shark,
A squid,
A shrimp
You are destined to swim
To glide in the water,
To breathe in the scent of the beautiful life that you possess
Stepping on the corals and opening your wide eyes
Even if it means getting your feet scratched and having your eyes sting red
Because that’s the beauty of life itself
It’s far from perfect
But we have a God who hits perfect and amazing with a bulls eye

Fiction is like a spider’s web
Four corners attached ever so slightly to life itself
And people hang on to those thin lines
Hoping to be part of the world the web has

Inching farther and farther away from
The grease of that kitchen counter
Dear, I’m sorry, but
You are not a spider

Books, stories, movies
Have set high standards and expectations
For hatred, for war, for love
People look for their Augustus Waters
Hoping that he’ll put cigarettes in between his teeth
And hope he’ll say that it’s just a metaphor

People read and watch and say,
“I want a love exactly like theirs”
And they search for someone exactly like the ‘one in the movie’
Hopelessly coming up empty

Don’t try to write your own love story
Based on those that are in stories
Because your love story has already been written
By the greatest writer of all time
And will be even greater
Than Hazel and Gus, Tris and Four,
Katniss and Peeta, Kenji and Athena,

Fiction is not supposed to be an escape from reality
You are not supposed to be hanging on that web
Wishing for a life better than what you have now
Is not a new house you look at, in hopes that you’ll live there someday
No, Fiction
Is a pair of glasses that make you see the beauty of your life even clearer
This is a spoken word poem I had to write for school. The topic was 'explain why not all information/truths from books and movies are beneficial.' It was hard to make a poem with the given topic and I admit like 1/3 of this was made on the morning of the day it was supposed to be submitted but I was quite happy with how it came out, given the fact that I was never really good at writing poems. So here it is!

— The End —