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 Sep 2016 Joel M Frye
mickaela
The spark you said you saw
(Within me)
Is smothered, smudged and smeared
On your sheets
The sheer shadows are shaded
And I bleed
Bitter black, bleak
Ink

The spark you saw has swam
In their sea
Of sweet, swollen, stolen
Beauty
(Their art is all I hope mine to be)
Brave, Beautiful, Brilliant

Ink

If my spark could be
A raging flame
If my flame could be
Beautiful pain
You’d read my dread
And understand
The sparks (Infernos)
in my head

Sprouting from my hands
When I wrote this poem, I was feeling very inadequate. No matter what talent you have, there seems to always be someone who is better than you at it. Despite the suggestion of writing in the poem, I wrote this with drawing in mind. I always inevitably fall into jealousy whenever I see an artpiece that I prefer over mine. Why can't I draw like that? HOW did they do this? Will I ever draw like this?
Then the wise one within me speaks a little louder:
"Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares? Why do I want to have someone else's style anyway? Why should I envy anyone? Why bitter jealousy, and not admiration? Why inadequacy, and not inspiration? And I KNOW that those same persons have felt inadequate before."

Thanks for reading <3
 Sep 2016 Joel M Frye
mickaela
I know there are others,
                                                         ­                                                        Like me
                         They are there, searching for each other (and themselves),
                                                    ­                                                            Like me
                                                      I know they are slowly learning the truth
                                                           ­      That, like me, they are not like you

                                                            ­                                                          You
   ­                                                                 ­                            Are you like me?
                                                             ­                    Maybe not, or maybe yes
                                                Maybe, you’d like me, because I am like you

                                                            ­                          But perhaps you aren’t
                                                          ­                       Maybe, you aren’t like me
                                                              ­                     And that’s okay too, you

                                                            ­                                 You are not like me
                                                              ­                     And you are everywhere
                                                    An­d its just like me, to want to be like you

                                                            ­                        You want to be different
                                                       ­                       Unlike me, I want the norm
                                                            ­                    I want to be common...but

                                                   ­        If you were like me and I was like you
                                                  You’d want to be me and I’d want to be you

And, like you, I’d be connected
With the world, related
I’d be like you, associated
With the world, correlated

Like you...I want to be “different”
No,weird.....”Unique”?
Like you, I’d want to be “special”
But isn’t that just odd?

                                                      You know what
                                                        Let’­s just stop
                                                        Tiri­ng, isn’t it
                                                      Confusin­g, silly
                                             Foolish, completely idiotic

                                                    Midw­ay, Let’s end
                                                         Let’s just be
                                                        You and me
I have been on both sides of the spectrum-too weird and too normal. When I felt out of place, I wanted to be normal. By normal, I don't mean boring or whatever. No one is really boring, after all. I mean...you know, normal. Normal?
I know, I don't know what that is either. After I became what I thought was normal, I did feel dull and boring.And it was tiring, pretending to be someone I'm not.

The wise voice in my head told me that I was being stupid and that normal doesn't exist and that everyone is weird and blah blah blah. That voice is probably right. But no matter what, I'll always want to fit in. I don't even want to be 'normal' anymore. Just accepted.

Thanks for reading<3
 Sep 2016 Joel M Frye
Ma Cherie
I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016
For my Mother - used to sing me lonely little petunia inan onion patch https://youtu.be/PtMQa1sSW_g
Smile everyone! Beautiful here!
 Sep 2016 Joel M Frye
JK Cabresos
Alone in the room,
my hands are stained
with poetry.
 Sep 2016 Joel M Frye
jane taylor
awakened
in the silence of the night
unable to return to sleep
i sat listening
as the stars taught me
unheard messages
delivered on a shimmering moonbeam
tho' i did not intellectually understand
i intuitively knew
what the starlight was saying
then sleep returned
and upon awakening
my intellect seems to have forgotten
the message
my heart now knows

©2016janetaylor
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