Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
breezeatdawn Feb 2018
My body is a map that I know too well
But once I found the dead-end road,
and I couldn’t come back
Some nights the image of your hands tracing
the walls
is way too vivid
for me to get it away
You stood too tall, crushed every living things
inside me      
Who I was thinking that time?
You thought by knowing every path to the place
would make you have the right to knock down the fence,
left it broken
and open
I built my own home
but claimed it yours
I was lost inside of my body,
the body that I know too well
breezeatdawn May 2017
You will wonder why your chest feels so tight whenever her name rolls over his tongue. Not me, but the other one.
The one who will always have a place in his heart.
Don't give up yet,
but listen to every story of them.
It will break you for sure, but you will know how once he loved someone that much.
You will find yourself think about him continually.
When you walk alone on the street,
when you are with your friends talking about life,
or simply when you wash your dishes.
You will think about him
in any places
in any situations
The thoughts of him will make your stomach churns,
like you've been riding a roller coaster for so long
Sometimes the excitement will put you on the top of the world
but then reality will take you down,
twist you around,
and flip you over.
Again. Don't give up yet.
Bring him muffin or take him out to have fudge brownie ice cream on the weekend. Those are his favorites.
Remind him to not sleep late because he will get tired and grumpy in the morning,
tell him it is okay not to be perfect all the time,
and the most important thing
be there for him when he is unhappy with his life or when the memories of her keep crashing back to him.
You might prepare a band aid for gashes that will be left in your heart.
But please don't give up yet.
  Apr 2017 breezeatdawn
Sylvia Plath
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.

I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.
  Apr 2017 breezeatdawn
Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
******* up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
The the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
  Mar 2017 breezeatdawn
Sylvia Plath
I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.
  Mar 2017 breezeatdawn
Sylvia Plath
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
breezeatdawn Mar 2017
-
When I become friends with loneliness, everything isn't that cruel
I'm used to the feeling of hollow chest when it doesn't hurt me at all anymore
It feels like I'm floating but my feet are still on the ground
It feels like I have the whole universe on my shoulder but my heart is as lighter as feather
It feels like there is a giant hole but I'm full
It feels so much like chaos and peace at the same time
Loneliness is a curse and blessing
Words from a journal
Day: unknown
Time: unknown
Next page