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 Oct 2013 certifiednutcase
jamie
when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?”, and the next sentence verbally put out will be what they call First impressions. when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?” and then what do we say? when i was 3 and in my pram i answered “i’m a girl”, when i was 8 and at a dinner with my mother i answered “i’m her daughter”, when i was 16 and at a party i suddenly found the words choked in my throat.
who am i?
that night i went to bed with crawling skin and whispering thoughts armed with hydrofluoric acid that nibbled away at my soul as the clock ticked by. painful seconds, minutes, hours passed, and i decided i couldn’t. that night i spent the remaining hours sitting in front of my mirror manually taking myself apart like a jigsaw puzzle that seemed to fit but never really did. there i sat, in the heavy, thick atmosphere of confusion, anger and suffocation.
who am i?
i arranged the pieces of me neatly on the silver tray― the oesophagus with years of corrosion by food that i reversed back up my throat so forcefully i made gagging look professional; the horrifyingly thin skin on my wrist with the twisted definitions of Art i thought would release the emotions in me. is there a word for putting back a shattered sculpture only to throw it down from the twenty first floor? is there a word for being forcefully submerged in bitter water and trying to breathe, only to realize you can’t? there is only so much you can lock into twenty six letters, but this is not about me.
this is not about me.
this is about the people who have lost grip of the kite strings attached to themselves and can proudly declare “I am a lawyer”, “I am a doctor”, “I am a teacher”, “I am an artist”, “I am a singer” but can not convince themselves about their empty eyes. this is about injecting those already stained with insecurity with self esteem, pouring emotions and feelings into their hollow shells of bodies, only then can we shrill with satisfaction “I have contributed to the world!” this is about dreaming of a day when people are asked “who are you?” and the answer will come flowing from deep within unlocked ventricles. we will refuse to be contained in blurry, grainy. colorless film with faces blended onto one another.
this is about dreaming of a day where mirrors are looked down upon and weight is merely a number.
meant it to be performed as Spoken poetry
 Oct 2013 certifiednutcase
jamie
i am

i. made of convergence of words, stems & ink.

never one to love geography but knowledgeable enough to know of the convergence of twenty six letters, wilted life givers and pigments that forms my skin. you can keep the feather light secrets resting on the petals―i only want the stem, the xylem, the phloem; to support my fragile state. you can be the pigment that stains my skin like the sun rise and sun sets i entrapped from Mother Nature. it is unfortunate the light has lost its way amongst the maze that is my veins, but i can be your light at the end of the tunnel if you don’t mind a flickering hesitant radiator. when you have mastered Taking Things Apart Without Killing, come to me and unpick the threads in my skin. maybe you’ll learn more about the words that latched upon me and if you’re lucky enough, you may uncover a raw portion i’ve hidden away. don’t forget the Lock N Lock container.

ii. held together by creaky cartilage

never one to study human anatomy but interested enough to read up and find out that i am held together by two hundred and six bones. the clavicle cradles liquefied pieces of you and the patella locks to allow the world to rest its burden on my shoulders. the sternum pieces itself and encases the lump of muscle that keeps me breathing, and cranium holds the Boss of my body. you can pick my spine and play it like a flute but please be careful for nothing resides in them. nothingness clots up my veins; nothingness fills the space between my bones; nothingness slowly taking over my senses. your October poetry piece stings me like the harsh winter wind, blows across the land and reduces my cartilage to dust. hold me like you would a newborn baby for i do not take supplement pills and i am the result of several fractured wrists & hips.

iii. harboring galaxies & objects inside

never one to take up Astronomy but aware that i harbor several milky ways and universes among the frantic chaos of every *****. flowers blossom in the crevices of my wrist bones and butterflies and birds of unnamed species flutter around in the comfort of my rib cage, just as pixies and sprites sleep and sing Church songs in the palms of my hands. sequinned galaxies swirl around in microscopic areas and i will expand until my seams burst only for me to bleed gold dust and crumpled stars. these tidal waves inside of my head won’t stop crashing until someone wakes me up to make sense of what i am and the meaning of lif
She locked herself away
Didn't give anyone a key
She never even said goodbye
and was swallowed by the sea

*k.d.
 Oct 2013 certifiednutcase
Kaia
on saturdays, they broke our knees.

mondays and wednesdays were reserved
for the study of literature,
for splitting open our heads and branding the words of the great writers
into our bones,
copying them over and over in our own blood,
memorizing masterpieces until we knew them forwards and backwards,
in order to remind us that there was always someone out there
who was better than us
(so we might as well not even try).

on saturdays, they broke our knees,
because pain would make us stronger.

on tuesdays and thursdays,
we were chained to a wall of numbers
and forced to take it apart piece by piece
(then put it back together, exactly how it had been before)
learning the true nature of  things from the inside out,
so that we would always have an answer for everything,
and never have to just sit and wonder
at the world around us.

on saturdays, they broke our knees,
so that we would learn to know the sound of shattering better than our own skin.

fridays were the days
when we were taught history,
when we were told the stories of our pasts and their pasts
and all the pasts that had ever been,
so that we would learn from our mistakes (and their mistakes,
and all the mistakes that had ever been)
a thousand times over—
learn them so well that we would carry them with us forever,
and never be tricked into letting go.

on saturdays, they broke our knees,
so that we would always have something familiar to fall back on.

sundays were our day of rest,
when we stole a rowboat
and paddled off into the mist,
until the fog was so thick that we couldn’t see our own feet
(it was the closest we ever got
to emptiness,
not that we would ever admit
we desired it).

but on saturdays, they broke our knees,
so that we would remember to come back eventually.

we always did.
I need this,
For me it's like an addiction,
I find excuses for why I am the way I am but in the end,
It's this that is my most honest form.
Anonymous,
Hidden behind a pen or a keyboard,
Spilling my soul in words rhyme,
Turning off the lights and losing all senses of time.
I scare myself and feel like I can't lose grip,
Because I never really had a hold.
Freedom is a false desire because what is it really?
I don't want freedom, I want love.
I don't want freedom, I want to feel alive.
I'd rather live surrounded by tyranny and fascism,
But be freed by love,
Than be surrounded by love and acceptance,
But be trapped by my internal struggles.
Truth is I've driven myself mad with thought,
I'd love to just turn my mind off and just coast,
Like a bike that just flies.
But maybe when push comes to shove it's that madness that makes me who I am.
Without it who am I?
I'm no one,
I'm a robot just going through the motions,
With a fake smile, a red cup, and someone I don't really know on my arm.
So ***** that I'll be the crazy one in the back of class,
Who shows up late and keeps quiet, and gets high and rides a bike at night.
Just feeling the cold winds against my live skin.
Letting my mind run free and light up the dark skies.
This is where I am free and this is my addiction.
I live in the grey areas and the parts of life that get overlooked.
I've spent so much time being angry at being overlooked and being walked past,
By those in the black and white parts of life but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I'll spend my time looking around at the overlooked and I'll find my missing piece.
It's hard to find anything when you stare at your feet the whole trip.

— The End —