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I am bitter as the wood
waiting to catch fire
I look forward to a good cry
at night
But mornings are good for me
I wake up thinking like maybe
I've mastered loneliness
Maybe I've mastered
filling up silence with just my breath

My spirit starts to get cocky
at how it's learned the rhythm
of a stone
rippling through the water
My spirit about to head home
sinking like some deep sea
creature allowed to live
in the abyssal zone
20,000 feet deep in
nothing but my own
unshakable core
I always seem to be my happiest when
I am writing in my journal
listening to music
alone
Not having to deal with people's dumb complexities
People not having to deal with mine

I just posted that thought on my instagram story
Hope no one thinks I am dramatic or pathetic
Or like - ***** just shut up and get off this already

You know... **** what they think.
I don't even like anyone in this world that much to even care.
I am so insanely easily disappointed by everyone anyway.
Perhaps I just expect perfection.
I mean, I am very critical of myself to begin with.
So that alone could explain these fiery expectations
that shrivel me to dust... like for example,
that very sentence.
"Shrivel me to dust?" GOD, I sound so ******* cliche.

WHERE THE **** IS MY CREATIVITY?

I haven't written a poem for what seems like a century. I haven't performed anything new in months. I think about it every day. Why don't you just write something?

I know.

It's because I am stupid.

And honestly, I am not saying that in a self-loathing way.
This world is not meant to be filled with every brain
being brilliant.
Maybe I only exist
so that I can get excited
at the idea,
so that I can drag myself on the dirt
enough to realize
that brilliance will never be my reality
and then I will understand the joke,
the COMEDY!

Then I will laugh and I will write about it in my journal in a non self-loathing manner and work myself to peace (not brilliance) because it means that I filled up half the page as I just did now, the irony.

And this means I exist! Oh my god, I exist and unless someone burns this **** down, then I could still exist.

Anyway, I do like people. I do love being around the ones I like.
But it's like I haven't calculated for exactly how long.
I follow their enticing little trail
Until I am tired to a stone
I hit the wall, BAM
And I simply cannot continue

Today at work I felt annoyed in every interaction I had with a male. They just don't listen unless I am talking about ***, sports or videogames
or something.
Maybe I am not that interesting
That would make sense as I have noticed more now
how much I freeze up
how horrible I am
at articulating
myself, I thought
I was a better at writing, but no not really that either.

I do like spacing sentences
like
that
so things can sound better.

I want to give men a chance.
But I've really wrecked it for myself on this one.
I've made a few rounds in this world
with a bunch of rowdy cowboys
or beat-boxes with deadbeats
slowly disillusioning me to
the rhythm of stone
Once again, a ******* stone.

And these men I speak of currently
silent in my world. I don't care.

Right now, you know what I want so badly.
Just to write a poem and perform it.
I am a big fat pipe baby
And any minute now
I am going to burst of my nightmares
and glory
And nobody will tell me ****
Nobody.
It's going to be all mine *******.
So much mine that I won't give **** about
brilliance
or men.
ThirdSpace, your space, my space for the head case

I cannot thank you enough for the days
where I had a pool of words
I did not know where to place
And if it wasn’t for this microphone
carrying the weight of my day
I would only be the tune
that a hammer makes against the wall

This is an ode to ThirdSpace

where no matter how dull
the day wrung me, this stage
somehow made canvas out of
my face, and I could go home
and sleep knowing that maybe
I can inspire love when you look at me

This is an ode to ThirdSpace

Where a tequila with orange juice is only $5
Where the bartender made sure I didn’t drink too much
Where dance music has a conscious
Where an amethyst stone spoke my name
Where the painters aren’t afraid to use their guts as a brush
Where a poet has an audience

Where our existence is reassured

And what else could an artist
possibly want more
when that is what we question
all of the time

thank u, ThirdSpace.
I read my poetry at ThirdSpace for ArtNight in Phoenix, but the venue was bought out and it will no longer be. I felt it in my heart to write an ode for this space and what my time there meant to me.
We learn to make
better friends
with bigger numbers
and less time
It is now
that we
understand
the magic
of the seasons
when they
click
and change
And like the berries
that one day
get picked
no one can steal
the spring
that turned us
beautiful
ripe
and red
I wrote my friend a poem for her bday cuz it’s just what I do.
If insomnia were a bicycle, I’d ride it
As I watch my yawn open eye
Wide awake I’d smell the roses
trace their spikes and wear their lipstick
And excuse me if the dreamers can’t smell it
A fever akin to a violin’s soundest
Cutting right through 4AM
with a blade of flicker
With an undestined dim...

I’d ride past the bus stop I walk to everyday
Hang my black coat and never claim it again
I’d ride to the point where I’d make it to work on time
But my boss to never see my face again
And if the hour hand were any slower
I swear…

I’d finally meet you
And when I do finally come to see you
our glass cages will then shatter

Out of the wreckage, a new kind of disaster

A happy one
but I’d have to warn you

I don’t have time for greeting cards
Or flat moons beaming dial tones
Because I am the type of girl
to eat my fruit with my eyes closed
And in this perpetual childhood
I am my own mother in a rocking chair
Back and forth
Am I almost there
If insomnia were a bicycle, I’d ride it
Straight into the sunset, I’d watch the sunrise
Like the V shaped pattern
of wake lines
behind a boat
the angle
between us
has stretched out far
The two arms of a chevron
have been forced
to let go
and I dream of the vertex
all of the time
When you are not the woman
of anyone’s dreams
Fridays become best
for cleaning
and folding
clothes
from three months ago
They become best
for dreaming
incognito
of serving
a man’s conscience
in bed for breakfast
It is the type of silence
that has carved the ******
back into my body
It’s left the fingers
searching
for what stifles
the neck
I comfort
my *******
pressing hard
on the button
below the belly
Until I am a sour fox
without blood
And what good is that rug
than to wipe your feet on
Stationary
I’m dead
Swaying
like a rocking chair
in my bed
And for the love of god,
I cannot soothe
the cry after I
******
finding it difficult to “enjoy” myself
Vivian Alvarado Mar 2018
You cannot sow leaves back to a tree
Unpluck the feathers of a duck
When words begin to rot the tongue
those words cannot be swallowed back
 
And this is the silence between us
And this is why there will be no nest
Because this is the relationship
between a bird and a gun
 
And I will not be hung by the feet, my friend
You cannot put this thunder in a jar
expecting the rain clouds to pour out to this garden,
this sick and yellow turf I keep protecting
like a woman carved into a scarecrow
 
And this is the distance between us
And this is how the bullet is missed
Because this is the sound of my heart pounding
like someone at the door,
I run to answer it— never again to you
don’t be with jerks.
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