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lauren Apr 1
cloud vs. a silver lining
important not only in daily life
but through sickness and health

my mother sat down on our living room couch and looked me dead in the eyes after her chemotherapeutic shot. she told me she sat down in the oncology patient room, waiting for her round for the month. she said it depressed her. she said the nurses were anything but compassionate when they loaded her up with medicine. a painful sting coasting through her veins. she never unlocked her eyes with mine, until she told me that the nurse smiled at her and said, “at least now you can get a new set of *******”! I can tell she was hurt. she couldn’t do this, her health wouldn’t allow for it. she told me she was crushed, that it was a cloud. I thought about this for a long time. I thought about the clouds that others added into her life. “at least they caught it early”, “at least you’re alive now”.

I looked for a silver lining. something to let her know that clouds pass. that winds blow away the grey. that the weather is never unchanging. that she was strong. I looked her in the eyes once more and told her I loved her. not that I was happy that she was still here. not that one day she may be able to watch me walk down the aisle, or hold my child. not that I was sorry or felt for her. just that I loved her. and she smiled at me, a genuine smile. not beaming with happiness, but a little spark showed through all kinds of pain.

love, that’s her silver lining. so that’s mine too.
lauren Mar 20
its funny, i sit here most of the time with metaphorical phrases churning in my head as i write. everytime i sit down to create i feel thousands of gears turning in my head.

sure, i’m real when i write. my passion lies here, my heart the same. but to me, maybe writing in metaphors is a way to mask a little bit of the hurt, a little less real then telling the truth.

it takes a lot of bravery to go back in time and reflect, to create poetry. writing takes you to a place, not always light. not always beaming with happiness. and i appreciate that. i appreciate the pain that poets go through everytime they relive, rewrite. because it should be. i know that.

i think that’s why i sit here, hurting most of the time. i think, wow, the one thing i love to do hurts. and that’s why i’ve been wanting to write about you and so many others. those who have escaped me. those who have stood by my side. maybe through my own selfish mistakes. maybe by dumb luck. maybe through their own.

every person that enters or exits my life has been written about. be that in my soul, on paper, or displayed on a computer screen. you’re there. and that’s pretty ******* special. i can’t tell them in person how much they meant to me, because i’m simply not good enough at doing that. i crave acceptance in all aspects of my life, and i am too fragile emotionally.

for me to sit here, to dig, to romanticize, demonize, glorify. willingly be vulnerable with myself and others, it’s a lot. i’m nobody to be pitied. no poet is and that’s not what we look for. we look for harmony, for balance. something that writing gives us. because the pain of retelling is almost worth the harmony that the release brings to create.

maybe aspects of myself have been lost throughout the years, but one thing remains. my writing. my poetry, my endless drafts, and journal entries. they tell my story. of you and everyone else who has left a mark on me. i am who i have been given. and what i have been given will forever be apart of my writing, therefore, a part of me.

this is a tribute to poets everywhere, as they caress their soul. as they mourn themselves in even the brightest of times. when they reminisce on the nostalgia of greater moments. but most of all, this is a tribute to me. to making me feel. even if it’s anything less than alive.
lauren Feb 22
I AM HURT

oh sorry, now do I have your attention?
do good poets do THAT?

ya.           that.

I’m not trying to be vindictive.
I’m trying to get you to listen.

not that it would fit through any
river, form, crack, split, sculpture
of an empty cavity YOU call a skull

**** it. I’m being vindictive.
glad you’re finally here to listen.
lauren Feb 13
the crook in my mothers arm, the shadow of my fathers figure, the rhythmic cadence of breathing.
it was stitched together with strings of comfort to create a creature of unusual habits.
the shadow was never once afraid of the turning pages and the crook was transitioning to a state of playful wincing.
black teeth and ink stains run along attire from chewed words and twisting metaphors.
dry definitions of glued together meanings of the less lonely.
remember, give vivd contrast to stained windows and dusted fleshly faces within each page turn, but let shadows overrule the light and rooms fill with silence.  
why gorge the darkness on a substance less likely to harm the living?
minds deteriorate quicker than flesh after all, and bodies were not built for fear,
so build the strength while you have it.
folding words like origami and stretching beyond the sick feeling of failure, you lived.
you cannot write about what you don't feel and heavy weather cannot stop a driver from reaching a destination.
vitamins were only long stings rolling down internal skin,
after all, you were always sick anyway.
coming to this realization,
suddenly,
my eyes were playfully wincing and the black teeth and ink stains that remained on my body,
while i gave vivid contrast to the rejuvenated definition of the less lonely.
and i liked the silence.
lauren Dec 2018
the uncanny feeling wells up inside
my chest
bursting along with a thousand butterflies
this is not a happy day, and we knew this
was creeping
crawling
awaiting to arise in the
awkward silence and steadiness of the
night
you’re gone
lauren Dec 2018
and i do not know how to describe it
their doors are decorated with
wreaths and flowers
like a welcoming symphony
a philharmonic of hospitality
their lights are always on at the right time
and it seems that they are friendly to the environment
because
their solar panels gleam like a diamond
catching the light at the perfect time
they pile into the car in the morning
with three beautiful children
prim and proper
the husband looks as if he is
something out of a magazine
and his wife
resembles themis
carrying daily
the flames of passion
but the neighbors next door look sad
maybe it's just me
but when i wave, they do not wave back
they do not even smile
the neighbors next door seem rude
to those who pass
but i understand because
everyone wants to talk about the
neighbors next door
when they don’t realize
that
they are the neighbors next door
too.
lauren Nov 2018
I place myself alone
sitting on a wooden dock
overlooking the ocean
imagining myself as
the wind because I believe
that would make me happier than
the emptiness I constantly feel
at least the wind has the water
but
I fight fire with fire
I **** out poison, yet not enough
I am toxic
so I sit, so I envy
and I curse a higher power
and I wait for you to walk
with a heart of steel to comfort me
to hold me, to love the poison
that is I
I don’t let you in
and I am still alone
I watch the snakes wrap themselves
around you
but still you do not understand
even though you do not feel them
and I don’t believe that you ever will
so in turn, I will sit alone
until my demons escape
until the wind and water show me
that I am free
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