Elizabeth Lauren

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

I am a System
A collective combination
Of parts
And machinery
Crafted and molded
For the purpose of
Survival.

I am a System
Comprised of tools
Pieces and parts
Intertwining and weaving
Like the webs of a spider.

With my hands I craft;
With my lips I speak.
Trying my best to make sense of my thoughts,
Formulating my mind
Just to be okay with the things
I feel.

And I pulse
Like the beating of
The black hole’s music
And wobbles of the universe.

I am,
I will be,
And in the end,
The fears will have been snuffed out
And only I shall remain
As the collective machine
I was born
To be.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

I Am

I am

Words
Infinite and bright
on a computer screen
Confusion
the Stars and
the Moon
Et pages meos
Libros illiterato
Plath, Woolf
but a little more sane
Wandering silently
Barefoot and
Enamored

Am I.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

I Was

I was

Young
free
Unrestricted
a Lily of
the Valley
Without a care
or a fear in the world
Once content
to let my life pass
no need to compete
Blissfully
Ignorant

Was I.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

The Things They Never Searched For

Children often overlook
The things they never searched for,
When ignorance blissfully blinds them
Until the day they are lost,
When reality robs them
And they stumble upon
The treasures of Pandora’s Box;
The things they never searched for.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

Red Ink

Once I wrote
A poem
At school.
I was
Nervous
And afraid
Of judgment from peers
So placed it on the chair
Of my third grade teacher.
The next day
Atop my desk
Sat my poem,
Face down.
And through my shaky handwriting
Were bright ink lines
Of red.
A woman whom I trusted
To guide and teach me
Had slain the innocent beauty
Of the poetry I had made.
These innocent children
I brought to life and raised
Were slaughtered
Destroyed.
Left to bleed red
On the paper,
They cried out, asking,
“Why?”
And I
Still a child,
Stammered at the question.
Why did they have to die?
I still today cannot answer.

To this very day
I never write in red ink.
When I see the color
On a creation of mine
The innocent child in me
Weeps
And mourns the loss of her children;
Her innocence, her passion.
She sees the red ink
And still wonders why
Her children died
A ****** ink-red death.

So now,
Even still a child,
But a taller one
With more hardened features,
And many more words,
I refuse to see blood on the page.
I never write
In red ink.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

A Good Pen

I like Good Pens
With nice ink
And the right feel.

I like the pens
The ones so nice
They transform my writing
And make my regular words
Come to life on the page.

When I have
A Good Pen
I will write
Just to write,
Similar to how
I will talk
Just to talk
When my voice sounds
Just right.

When I read words
Written with a Good Pen
I stare at them a moment longer
Captivated.

But when I see
Words
And only
Words
Voiceless, Breathless,
I cringe and turn away,

In search of new words.

The words of beauty and thought
With elegance and meaning
As if the writer breathed
His life into their bodies.
His children are his words
And he cradles them within
Until they spill out
On spaces within lines
On pages of books unwritten.

When I see these words
They are not always written
With a Good Pen.
Sometimes they are sketched
In a crude sort of oil
Lacking the beauty
Of a Good Pen’s stroke.

But still I read them
And I trace them with my fingers
Stained with the makeshift ink
And the salt of the soul
Because these words are
Simply more than their ink
And their fathers aren’t defined
By the quality of their pens.

Elizabeth Lauren Mar 2013

My Words Are More

The world doesn’t make
Sense. It’s not supposed to make
Sense. Things change. Time moves. It’s
Just the way it is. I guess I like to tell myself that
I’m fine with that, but I know I’m not. People drift
Off into different directions. They vanish into a world;
A twisting world of anonymity, where faces and names
Blend together. What scares me about this is that I don’t
Want to fall into this pit. Even in a place where the most
Exuberant become dull and listless with the weariness of
Reality, I would never blend into the wallpaper. I would
Always stick out. I am not just some face. I am not just
A figure of clay who can be crushed into rebirth. I am
Stoic and solid. I am the rock of my soul; the passion of
My spirit. I despise red ink, and I live in a world of naivety
And wariness. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even awake. Lost
Inside a dream. Barefoot, enamored, and hungry for words of
Life. Often, I find myself amidst a place too far from my home.
I’m small and young, but I crave freedom. I don’t know
Where I am, I don’t know where I’ve been, but I know
Where I want to be….who I want to be. I want to leave
My mark somewhere. I want the world to know that
              I was here. And so, I spend my time devoting myself to
My words.  I will utilize my hands,               my tools,
what I can to make my words                   alive and
Fighting on the page.                              An artist
Is more than                                        just a title;
We are the
Things that
Make life an
Interesting and
Mixed up place.
Artists are the stuff
Of dreams and poems,
Of mysteries and curiosities.
I am an artist. I always will be. I find
That in order to be, I must write and make
My art. And so, because I must, I shall. I will never stop
Or cease to create the things I love. I am here, and through my
Poems and my art, I always will be. My words are more than just words.