I like hearing my own voice.

I like its rich tone and sultry air.
Some people called it a little husky for a woman's
but squeaky voices
make people cringe.
I love the feeling of beautiful words rolling off my tongue,
creating intonations that are completely and uniquely
my own,
and re-rehearsing my free verse
so it sounds absolutely perfect
to me.

Yes,
I love hearing my own voice.
I find the greatest joy in listening to my own discourse.
But, sometimes I don't because my voice can also be my
worst enemy.

From a young age,
discrepancies arose in in my communication.
Repetition, prrrrrooooolongation, and ab-   normal stoppages
plagued my speech.
Even with hours of therapy and annunciation drills,
I still couldn't escape
from choking
on my own words.

A quiet child wants nothing more than to demand attention
by speaking boldly.
A voice w-w-worth listening to that is eager to share
hides behind the fear
of stumbling on
little t-teeny letters.
And children are the cruelest of beings.
Their critique on anything abnormal
leaves deep scars.

I wanted to read out loud in class,
be an actress, a poet.
Maybe it's because I love the sound of my own voice,
but with all of these activities revolving around it,
it is laborious to have a
stutter.

A present
of citrus flames and gorgeous warmth
wrapped up in ribbons
of thick gray trimming
nicely disguise her demon-like temperament.
Callused digits and snapping embers
snarling a ferocious alarm,
her gnashing luminous teeth
latch on to unprotected areas and leave a bite
that kills all
curiosity  
behind her
ravenous energy.
Charring and blistering the helpless prey,
her malevolent laughter torments from afar
while she quickly retreats
to her den,
nibbling her bedtime snack.
She dispenses poison like a teenage lover leaves hickeys,
even the most common and revered remedies scarcely pacify the
scars.
And yet she is unapologetically herself,
brazen,
raw.
She is magnetic.
And untouchable.

She wore mountains round her neck

           (“No, lower.”)

Peaked with scented minarets

           (Softer and sweeter than strawberries,
           grander than a psalm.)

In the gulch between words
I offered you a prayer
and you wounded me with a poem.

I watched you  move
like a summer night
to disrobe the cover
of your collected works
           -a landscape of fire and blood
            that beats a wardrum
            deep in my hungry river.

Your petals pressed against my lips
           to drown , to drown
                      gladly.

She wore mountains round her neck,
and I wore her ankles with a smile.

I've tried every drug I could get my hands on;
I've tried every hobby that interest me;
I've tried to play every instrument loud;
but, none could save me.

I've raised the base of every bottle,
but, that, not even that could save me.
I've drenched my body with countless glasses -
glasses full of hangovers, and that -
even that cannot save me.

I've tried everything, yet -
the feeling of loneliness is the loudest,
and nothing seems to save me from it.
It's weighing heavy on my chest, and I'm hoping;
hoping someone, something, anything -
saves me from this stagnant, empty feeling of worthlessness.

A light has faded
A voice gone silent
A hope is ended
A life now spent

The dreams are gone
The visions closed
The curtain drawn
The life reposed

That presence lost
That joy now ceased
That bridge was crossed
That life released

But love lives on
It will not cease
This life so short
Is now at peace
BOEMS BY JA 220