Tori G: Favorites

Jan 2014 Tori G

Detachment

Jan 2014 Tori G

Santiago Mendizabal

I feel more sedated than alive,

Defying reason and questioning reality,

It’s like morbidly walking through

The endless fields of familiarity.

Slowly losing the ability to feel,

I can no longer distinct what is real,

Cold melancholy and apathy creep in my heart,

My existence becomes shrouded; like a rainbow in the dark.

Testing the bounds of sanity,

Human excess and passion flood the mind,

Releasing any bonds of any kind,

As I’m consumed by the snakes of vanity.

Laying among the ruins of my life,

As my paradise plummets down to Hell,

Because the confusion of chaos defeated me,

With kind words of reverence.

“Pride cometh before the Fall”,

As narcissism festers in self-loathing,

The feeling which makes your soul crawl,

Will cause intimacy to be exposed like clothing.

Fear is a thief for whom I hold no grudge,

And pain is a rehearsal for death.

I looked down at the abyss and took the lunge,

As my world was compressed into a single last breath.

Dec 2013 Tori G

Back to the drawing board

Dec 2013 Tori G

Timothy Brown

Back to the drawing board

The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.

Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?

To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.

With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.

I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.

Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.

Dec 2013 Tori G

Flames of the Fire

Dec 2013 Tori G

Clara

Flames of the Fire

When I was young you told me not to touch the fire,
Or I would burn my fingers.

That was a long time ago and you failed to warn me,
That people have fire inside their souls as well,
And theirs is more enticing.
It is more dangerous,
Than a paltry candle flame will ever be.

Dec 2013 Tori G

daddy

Dec 2013 Tori G

Lappel du vide

daddy

papa remember when you used to spin stories out of gold thread
the thread that came from your teeth
it wove me a blanket so i could fall soundly asleep
papa remember when late on a summer night
we danced to music that was alive and wafted in the warm breeze like night blooming jasmine
sweet, and crawling up your nose and infecting your head
papa remember when you said you’d call
that was last year
and that same song came back on and I was surprised to find tears sneaking up
on me
burning canals into my cheeks
because you told me goodnight
and never said good morning again
because you left in my god ******
sleep

Nov 2013 Tori G

Routines

Nov 2013 Tori G

Harry J Baxter

Routines

You wake up early already feeling an itch behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
behind your throat. Sweating but **** - it's November and you had the window open. Four cups of coffee and seven cigarettes to start the day. A tip: if you put your hands in your pockets then nobody can see them shaking.
"You look hungry. Eat something."
force down a McMuffin or two at noon and a ham sandwich before work. Drive the car.
that night work is noise. The shift ends with a paycheck.
Go withdraw thirty bucks. Find some *****.
"A guy's gotta cut loose."
a guy's gotta be cut off.
***** this ***** that
twisted up so tight. wound around the bend. coffee and the dashboard lights. Radiation.
three AM fumbling with the keys - alone under a street light at the bus stop
wake up to the tv playing infomercials. Shower. Now repeat.

Nov 2013 Tori G

in these stars

Nov 2013 Tori G

Alex

in these stars

northern skies
and the colorful atmosphere
I lay down on the grass
with no one beside me.

you slammed the door at me,
you left me away
coming back,
asking for my trust again.

and we were the same,
but we were different people.
different places and different bodies.
in these mass of stars, you were the one twinkling
while I was there, dead and not shining.

the constellations forming you and me
but the future didn't make it possible.
in those constellations were nothing but fake
but anyway they believed your undying love for me
as a sweet peck of taste.

I remember you saying there was no us
but I believe the constellations
were forming both of us right.
I had to make it work, I was the only one working
and now I'm close to giving up
and just agree with every word that comes out of your mouth.

"It's gonna be okay." I repeated all over my head.
but this times infinity,
I was tired of myself trying.

what you get for trying
isn't a jackpot prize above your head
instead you find yourself
giving up on love and giving up on you, on your own self.

I look back at the stars
and no one comes to lay down with me
and you know what's funny, though?
after everything we've done,
I still come back to these stars.
and oh do they remind me so much of us.

Nov 2013 Tori G

The Climber's Lament

Nov 2013 Tori G

Laurel Elizabeth

The Climber's Lament

Tendonitis
is a small price to pay for euphoria.

he gasped at the brink of
                                    success
mouth agape and strained
like pulled taffy
This project
embraced him entirely
consumed like a long lost relative
Sometimes we don’t climb.
we dance.
It was no longer clear
whether he climbed more than
the earth climbed him: she clambered inside,
ascending further into his psyche
with every
stretched, pulsing
muscle grasp
happiness bleeds into our
contorted
torso-Grace.
like water running the
pigment lines of
saturated paintings.
He cried out
impassioned,
shedding the skin of his palms
again-
upturned and reaching
like a caustic supplication
endowed with
vibrating desire,
quaking faith.

This time
he fell hard.
and again,
slap mat against the grain
of success
flung downward
like a thrice worn shirt

But wait-
and watch.
She calls him weeping-
a contrite lover
and he will return
to her brutality
nursed with humility-
intoxicated with exhilaration.

I have recently become very involved with rock climbing. I have asked myself, why do I feel so passionate about this when it hurts so much and is so frustrating? This poem is an exploration of that juxtaposition.