I hadn’t meant to spy
just an evening’s walk along the beach
knowing that things are sometimes strewn there after storms
between a gust of wind—a break in clouds

Coming upon moonlight
gleaming on wet teenage backs
Two—
by a leaning erosion fence
fondling the last discoveries of childhood
fumbling with the barriers of her bikini
behind the erosion fence
out of sight and forbidding

Breeding like sea grass by rhizomes
prowling that neck, those *******
Gasping! Warring!
for the land of white warmth below their tans
His hands grip, lift, position, insist
By such undertow
mouths and hips pinioned in disbelief...

where they cannot be seen
two half-rounds in rhythm – struggle in the surge of being

as the surf binds them in refrains
about the ankles

April fools day
Is not the day to prank your family and saying your having a ba-by (baby)
If you wanted the attention
It’s now on you
But for all the wrong reasons
As you angered many people too
It may be “funny” to some but hurts for others
Especially when there are so many that wishes it would come true
Think before you play
An April fools joke
Pranking that your pregnant isn’t a joke
When there are so many out there that can’t have children
And that is no joke....

Just because
I've put my clothes on

upside down
inside out
and backway round

doesn't mean my mind has gone

must be still in my prime
it's not all at the same time.

you were my first cigarette
so fast you burned, and sweet,
and made the spinning in my head
and sped my heart's slow beat.

when the last of you i'd breathed
and you and i were done
there were burns all over me
and an aching in my lungs.

I am light
   the sparkle of fresh dew
       the warmth of the morning sun
          the whispering breeze that speaks true.

I am the beating
    heart of light
        the swirling auras of dreams
            forever shining bright.

            I am beauty
      of the delicate rose
the sweetest midnight kiss
     the heart of all prose.

        I
          am
                Love

        touching deep the heart
            creasing tenderly the soul
                  the perfect end, the perfect start.

                           I am………
                                             YOU.

I am tired, exhausted really.
I’m not getting enough sleep. Not enough is going my way.
Writing takes a piece of my soul and turns into words while meaningless by themselves becomes something with power.
Life doesn’t feel vibrant and colorful like I know it sometimes can be.
Life has instead been replaced with a gloomy, apathetic relative.
Life has been treating me unfairly, despite my best efforts.
It has left me broken and bruised and bleeding in the middle of the battlefield.
Despite my cries, nobody hears me as I continue to disintegrate into a shriveling pile of nothing.

I feel like I’m losing. No, I know that I’m losing.
Because see it’s not the battles that matter, it’s the war.
Things have changed, I’m slowly coming back to the person I used to be, unhappy with myself and with life.
I’m completely terrified of this thought but far too tired to resist.
I don’t know how to reverse, I don’t know how to find happiness.
I have lost the road map, I’m scrambling for a hand hold or some sort of sign.

I’m too tired to fight.
I’m too tired to be happy.
I’m too tired to focus on school work.
I’m too tired to push myself through 6 hours of homework a night.
I’m too tired to carry around a 40 pound backpack from class to class.
I’m too tired to find balance between healthy habits and what reality holds.
I’m too tired to effectively manage my time, I would rather self-sabotage.
I’m too tired to write, I’ve already said this.
Maybe if I got more sleep, not so much in my life would be wrong.  
I like to think that the majority of my life’s problems would be fixed with a little more balance.
Perhaps my life would look a little more like my aspirations.
Perhaps I would be happier and my eyes filled with more ambition.
Perhaps my notebooks would be filled to the brim with intelligent ideas and beautifully crafted writing.
Perhaps my life would look more like the plot to a cheesy indie film with the protagonist figuring everything out during a montage set to sentimental music. I would enjoy that.
Or
Perhaps nothing would change. And everything I imagined is nothing but an impossible world created by fractured idealist’s fuel and fabricated fiction.
I’m exhausted and tired of putting my ideas out only to have them rejected.
But that’s what writing is about. Reality, and pushing through.

Writing isn’t supposed to be infused with sugar-coated metaphors and avoidance of the truth.
Writing isn’t supposed to be lies, although that narrative is proposed often.
Writing isn’t supposed easy.
Writing is supposed to be about emotion.
Writing is about failure.
Writing is about heartbreak.
Writing is supposed to be about the rough times as much as it is about the good times.
Writing is real.
Writing is exposure.
Writing is powerful, simply because of the truth behind it.

So I will continue to write even when I don’t feel like it.
I will continue to face reality, head on with a stare colder than ice.
I will write because it’s not supposed to be easy.

I always wondered how long I could hold your breath
Hands wrapped like ribbons on your neck
No signs of forced entry since I let myself in gently

I always wondered how my feet will feel on tile flooring
Stained red when you didn’t stop me
Just wanted to write down some notes and your arms were so appealing

I always wondered how I’ll look bathed in blood in the moonlight
Will it look blue with the night hue?
Pity you didn’t let me try, your cries made me lose my appetite

I always wondered how it’ll taste, human flesh from your face
Only the most honorable will be selected
The rest thrown to dogs since they didn’t fit my palate

But of course, I only wondered
I am only hysteric not psychotic your Honor.



© Sofia Villagrana 2018