"musicals" poems
My name is Ashly (yes spelled without
the E)
I was born without a windpipe and was 3 months premature.
I underwent surgery for a tracheostomy and died on the operating table.
I was revived.
I was hooked up to many machines and my parents were told I wouldn’t live for more then 3 days...
If I would survive more then 3 days I would be hooked up to machines my whole life and be in a “vegetative state”
Doctors told my parents and family “I would never live to see my 18th birthday.”
I lived in the hospital for almost 2 years.
At age 2, I myself, ripped out my tracheostomy (which could have killed me)
My family rushed me to children’s hospital and the doctors decided to let the hole in my neck close and see what happens.
My doctors don’t know how I made it through the night or days after.
I went home after a couple weeks and that’s when I started living my life as a “normal” child.
All of my sisters were involved in dance classes, my parents( doctors didn’t agree) enrolled me in to classes.
THATS WHERE MY LIFE CHANGED
Dance became my passion, along with gymnastics and musical theatre.
Something my family, doctors or even myself never thought I would EVER do.
On my 18th birthday it was a mixture of emotions.
I made a milestone that no one said I would ever see.
I competed in dance and gymnastics until I was 19 years of age as well as did over 60 musicals at my local theatre company.
I never thought I would ever have a boy love me because I had “too many problems” or even get married for that matter.
Fast forward, I am now almost 33 ( June .11th is my birthday)
Married for almost 8 years to my best friend.
Happy doesn’t even cover what I feel everyday waking up next to my love.
We may not have a “family” of our own but we are happy and in love over the moon with one another.
So why did I just ramble on with this?
Because I’m a MIRACLE and a SURVIVOR.
Even though I don’t remember much from my childhood and what I and my family had to endure, I have been fighter since my first breath.
I’M A SURVIVOR and I’VE MADE IT....
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
We could scale
snow capped mountains
or tiled rooftops
We could stroll
the halls of grand art galleries
or the city's graffiti stained alleys
We could sip
wine from elegant glass goblets
or instant coffee from chipped cups
We could watch
gala operas and musicals at the amphitheater
or puffy clouds as they float by in the sky
We could look
up to the vast galaxy and its starlight
or down to the metro's sleepless city lights
We could listen
to loud pulsing rhythms at a concert
or to the steady beats of each others hearts
We could go
and roam the world all day
or just stay in each others arms all night.
I can't care less
on what we could do.
Every moment would be
Fun,
Adventurous,
Exciting,
Marvelous
Grand, and
Breathtaking
As long as you are with me
and I am with you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event
Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.
They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro
These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.
Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
I am eighteen years old.
That doesn't seem like a lot,
But to me,
It is everything.
Eighteen years is all I've ever known.
Even if I died tomorrow,
Still eighteen.
While that might not seem like much to you.
You are probably not eighteen.
Despite my age,
I have been through a lot.
Some say more than most,
Even then those who are older.
At eight years old I lost my dad.
At eleven years old I lost my mom.
At eighteen years old,
I've learned to be okay with that.
Between eleven and thirteen I was abused.
I eventually escaped and was safe again.
At eighteen years old I am still in fear of this sometimes,
But I am working on that.
At seventeen years old I applied for college.
I was accepted and excited to go.
At eighteen years old I dropped out.
All of the anxiety and illnesses became too much,
But I am working on that.
For eighteen years I've dealt with mental illness.
Currently being called Bipolar,
Manic and depressive episodes are common,
But I am working on that.
In the past eighteen years,
I've learned new things.
I've learned who to trust,
And who to believe.
However,
I am still working on the difference between them.
In eighteen years I've learned to let go.
Toxic or not.
Family or not.
Just letting grudges be free.
I'm still working on that.
In eighteen years I've learned skills.
With the musicals I've been in.
With my writing continuing.
Even better at communicating now.
But yet I am eighteen.
With time hopefully left,
Leaving room to gain new experiences,
Because eighteen isn't a lot.
But I do thank eighteen.
For all that it has taught me.
From being confident,
To being reassured,
And everything in between.
Because I am almost nineteen.
And nineteen is a lot.
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC
the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.
from The Olympia Review - 1994
4.5k
There's nothing wrong with la la land,
But,
For me,
It is a reminder that there just aren't movies like that,
For me,
That display my love,
Accurately.
I don't get,
Musicals,
Or duets,
Or colorful sets,
I don't get pretty dresses,
Twirling in an over head shot,
I get over sexualized,
And movies,
That are not,
Actually,
For me.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
My kryptonite?
That's a good question. I'm no superhero, no, my limbs too fragile for any crime fighting, any dark lighting of the night, I can't be a Batgirl.
But everyone still has a kryptonite.
I jokingly tell people ice cream, or inappropriate musicals, or turtles, or writing. Writing is a good one. I will do a lot for the sake of the written word.
But that's not what truly gets to me, what breaks me down every time.
Change and love.
Changing love.
It begins as perfection, as bliss on a stick, like a Firecracker Popsicle, delicious until you get to the part you don't like, or, when you get to the end. All you have left is this disgusting flavor in your mouth or the taste of bark, and neither is pleasant.
Everything ends.
That's what kills me. That is my kryptonite. Endings.
In so many facets, this thing kills me. They are my favorite part of every story, but my least favorite part of my life. They are what I spend the most time constructing in a paper, but they are the thing I avoid the most in reality.
I have been taught, in my life, that everyone will leave. There's abandonment sewn into my heart that I'm not sure can ever be erased because, unfortunately for me, its always been true. Almost everyone has left me, and I can't help but assume the rest will leave too, until I am alone.
That's what I love about writing. When you write, there's characters, a new world, a new life. You're never alone, and you're never yourself. When you despise who you are so much, its a dream to try on a different coat and live another life, even if its for only a few minutes.
Another flaw of mine; getting off track. We began on kryptonite, and then I turned it into a tale about the wonders of writing. Typical Grace, distracted about words. Words, words, words, but are they real?
They're real to me, so I guess that's all that matters.
I guess it all circles back to my original kryptonite. Love.
I love too much and get hurt too easily. Its the struggle of my disorder and the folly of my far too large heart, far too large for my little body. Sometimes I wonder if my entire body is one larger, misshapen heart ***** I fully realize the heart is not where emotion comes from, but I'm certainly not all brain. Heart is the only ***** that makes sense. so strong, so vital, but so breakable.
Maybe that's why they call it falling in love, because even Superman can't fly away from it.
Its kryptonite.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
Hollywood is dead and gone
It died a lonely death
It's just too bad no one was there
When it took it's final breath
Forget the tales of yesteryear
Of junkies and of ******
The Hollywood I speak of
Is behind the golden doors
Warner Brothers and MGM
United Artists and 20th Century Fox
Are now owned by conglomertates
With more cash than Fort Knox
Film is just an extra
In a business it once ruled
With the advent of computers
The industry's re-tooled
CGI and Green Screen
Let them do more at great cost
But, without the use of actors
There is something that is lost
The tie in with it's history
We only see each year
When they memorialize those who passed
At the Oscars....shedding tears
There is now just two places
To process film itself
When, way back in it's heyday
Of these there was a wealth
No new ideas forthcoming
Movies get rebooted or remade
And the startlets in the pictures
They're the one's who're getting laid
Merchanidising movies
That is where the real cash lies
If you're not attached to a food chain
Your bottom line will die
Hollywood died in it's sleep
It died with dignity
The funeral will be shown though
On reality TV
It smothered in it's excess
A victim of it's greed
It gorged on people's wallets
Forgetting peoples needs
Old Hollywood is magic
It lives on in peoples hearts
Too bad the studio system
Was sold off in such small parts
The western died, musicals next
Then came the comedy
You can't see them in the theatre
But they're on your big tv
I stand here and salute her
She put pictures in our heads
But, now thanks to her avarice
Old Hollywood is dead...
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
The love of a grandson
to a grandmother
is a special bond.
It cannot be broken.
A grandmother's presence
in the eyes of a grandson
makes him behave
more like he should behave.
He looks up to her.
I look up to you.
I often wonder
what experiences you've gone thorough.
What has made you into the you today?
You've gone through so much yet,
I've only known you
for 22 years of it.
Through that time,
you've shown me
what a great grandparent is.
You attended most of my
Concerts
Plays
and Musicals
with loving support
Every birthday,
Christmas,
Valentine's Day,
and Easter
without ever missing a beat
you would contact me.
I thank you
So
SO
SOOOOOO MUCH!
I often feel guilty
for not always contacting back.
I really need to get better at that.
As a kid
there was nothing better
than looking forward
to your Christmas presents.
The science toys,
the cookbooks,
and of course,
the Hot Wheels.
There was nothing better to me
than knowing
that I would get a new track to put together
or a new car.
As I've matured,
so have the presents.
the Alinea cookbook
is like a sacred document
I look at it often
and it always amazes me.
Thank you for inventing
"Grandma's Orange Stuffing"
Its always my favorite part
of the Thanksgiving feast.
(Way better than dad's)
Although this poem
isn't very poem-y
I hope you enjoy it
for the rest of your life.
You're the only real grandparent I ever had,
and I love you with all my heart.
Thank you for all you've done.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust.
Make Plans, Or Make Cookies.
There Is Living To Do Here.
There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch.
There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste.
There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held.
There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath.
There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon.
There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open.
There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”.
There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets.
There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families.
There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted.
There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins.
There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls.
There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos.
There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays.
There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands.
There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life.
There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick.
We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune.
There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart.
There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away.
There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills.
There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills.
There Is Living To Be Done Here.
There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Poems mean a lot to me
indeed a very lot you see
the society I live in
is reflected in all the lines
love is very important almost a sin
and the always one glasses of wines
the best medicine for our health
they say is also wealth
but I regard love is the most important
remember I am human not a mutant
love is the best for our life
it is obvious that we must strife
love is like the present wind
that blows constantly so tender in
through my thirsty body and mind
I reside in this country oh so kind
a country full of peace, plenty of place and love to hide
that's why I have my domicile here and reside
My beloved likes reading and traveling
we have seen parts of the world a very lot
I have other kinds of interests, like painting
writing essays, listening to music, and praying to God
building websites, designing cards and yes
conducting PC Help desks, accounting, telebanking, and playing chess
in London and Serfaus, going to musicals and skiing,
along the Mediterranean sea, enjoying life, making love while driving
how do I do that, d'you really want to know, dear?
while whatsapping, walking, running, and the music to the ear
really very simple, your love in you, your whole soul in there,
just like our parents using tupperware
but ah, I like most to describe the love in poems I write
then posting them for your most beloved after that heavy night
since love is so important in our life
you must not take it for granted but must strife
we can't miss it in our life its function
like: though sometimes on our highway a junction
it's like the great water of the mighty ocean
it has grip on you, you feel the strength, but it's your addiction
the strong water's ripples too, its mildness
you demand the best, the most but never less
and remember for ever that in the country I live in
the kind of love I'm so addicted to, is never a sin
in the end my heart and being will constantly say Amen
© Sylvia Frances Chan
15th August 2013 -
5.21 hrs a.m. WETime
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
We meet by the lockers
at break
I'm still amazed
that this school
has Cheerleaders
that basketball
not rounders & netball
is the sport played
that we study
the Cold War
' Of Mice & Men'
& the War in Vietnam
that we have 'Hitzenfrei' days
that our German teacher
always forgives our mistakes
that boys & girls
hang out together
that we put on musicals
I've never heard of
That we celebrate the fall of the Wall
that we take school trips
to Concentration Camps
that there's no uniform
that the teachers
rarely explain anything
that the word ' rubber'
doesn't mean ' eraser'
here but something else
that there are stereotypes
like 'nerd' & ' prom queen'
that we welcome grafitti
that we believe in Love
above any kind of Study
that we have the freedom
to pick & choose our failiures
without being sent
to the Principal's office
that we read Kerouac
Carl Sandburg & Ginsberg
that nearly everyone
has lived in at least
two or three
different countries
that we rarely fight
that my crush
plays trumpet
in a ska band
that we go
to the nearby Lakes
on weekends
& the English language cinema
on Tuesdays
that we celebrate Halloween
bit by bit I nearly forget
my All Girls school days
in soggy Britain
where I had no friends
where we sang hymns
every single morning
where we didn't practice
the Love we preached
where our future
was crumbling old Oxbridge
where we had a coat of arms
where we had houses
named after the merchant ships
of our Founder from the 1600ds
where we didn't dream
of becoming Presidents
or Astronauts but Academics
forever lost in musty books
the flower of our youth, wasted
*Hitzenfrei days were days in summer when we were let off school because it was too hot.
Wall - Berlin Wall
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
smiling though the lamps fade fast
smiling with white teeth against the night
to and fro they are dancing and
the dance is not wasted on us
white and silver marking your silhouette
touching though hands are pale
hums in rhythm to sad musicals or
distorted lullabies for grown ups
the necklace in your mouth is weeping
bleeding like my heart is now
dancing though the night's gone
the stars rock us away
he's rocking with his shirt undone
he's rocking quips and ego oh
it's a long way home from here
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
i'm sorry you find it necessary
to put other people's body parts
inside your mouth
like you're some teething mental infant,
or maybe you're trying to take the place
of the baby we're pretending never happened…
…fuck. i need a moment. .. …. …
ok.
anyway,
******* got you into this
so you think ******* will get you out?
it's ******* funny i have to flee the ******* country
to get free from your fingers' guilty grip
on a sad mind that can't ******* forgive himself,
on a mind muddied with so many mistakes
i get light-headed every ******* morning trying to decide
which regret to let ruin my day today,
but thank god you've always been there to remind me.
i thank that great guy in the sky
that you're always there
willing & ready
to rub it in.
maybe i just loved you too much,
i guess,
& you loved me just enough
so i'd still do favors for you
& god isn't that what Shakespeare was talking about?
we were rarely a well-written romance
but we ******* NAILED tragedy.
& i told you that first night
as we talked over
some movie i didn't care about
in some language i'll never learn,
that i ******* hated musicals….well
you must've read my subtitles
because you still sing inside my head sometimes.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
I apologize if my eyes,
Tend to wander into your worlds.
Penetrating the walls you’ve built,
To get a sneak peek into your last nights
And next years
And what are you doing todays.
I apologize,
If my ears air-waved into your waving dictions,
Dropping tones,
Dimming voices,
Dictating the peace you want yourself to attain
Through the side conversations
And the cocktail effects
Attending, to what you’re not aware of.
And I wasn’t aware that you are going to treat me that way;
I gave you my heart over dinner
Last night; under the table your family was sitting on-
As we put on our decorous smiles
And threw our shy giggles;
Cracking up with strong inner laughter within,
Because the same
Lost, upset, wild
Shoot first ask later couple
Are pretending to blush over “grown up” jokes
Made by our fathers
To test our inner surfaces;
I gave you my heart over dinner last night,
And that was
THE last night;
Because my heart and yours
Stopped exercising their vividness
On a Tuesday morning.
They, stopped writing musicals of us,
For my heart was executed
And yours got shattered-
Nowhere to be found;
Martyred in between the lines of a political message
They wrote with your blood
Forgetting about mine,
They carved their letters
With the nymph in a black sweater;
And the river that she used to own,
Took her away
Before anyone can see,
The disfigured goddess now list in the sea
Of blood-of my thoughts and reflections.
My voice,
Now layered into dissimilar tones;
The lowest, is the one I use to constantly pray for you
And the highest is for me to scream for your fallen eyes.
I stand steady
Against the tidal waves
And write on the walls
The poetry I kept inside,
The walls you’ve built;
The walls everyone builds
And I try to penetrate
To get a sneak peek
Of their last night’s
And next year’s
And what are you doing today’s.
Because my walls are destroyed
My pillars are demolished
My life is but a living memory of hers,
And my eyes are nothing but thieves,
Staring their way to steel the words
From the faces in the crowd
In order to write something
That can get me to forget
That I am mourning;
That in my head plays a sad guitar,
With a silent base
And a lost drum beat.
I apologize for writing this,
For letting your eyes conquer these papers
For letting your ears hear those words.
I apologize for feeling the urge to apologize
But that’s what I grew up on
And no one can seem to get rid of their bad habits…
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
A poem is built with sounds
Liberally littered with alliteration
Rhyming reason
Aspiring assonance
Up metaphorical mountains.
Each letter plays its part.
A cast of cascading chords
Making mystical music
For the discerning ear.
Operatic musicals from the Muse:
A crescendo of noise
Or sometimes
Whispers in the winnowing wind.
I write because I must,
Because I need to
In answer to
The Call.
Paul Butters
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
In real life I don't have the courage to utter all these words. By stringing them together, I can get these phrases. I am most amazed what poetry made possible, you can read it in: The Audacity of a Poem
*************************************
Poems mean a lot to me
since it is reciprocal you see
the society I live in
is reflected in all these lines
love is very important almost a sin
and the always one glasses of wines
always getting in
the best specialist for our health
they say is also The wealth
but I regard love is the most important
remember I am human not a mutant
love is the best for our life
it is obvious that we must strife
love is like the present wind
that blows constantly so tender in
through my thirsty body and mind
I reside in this country oh so kind
a country peaceful, plenty of place and love to hide
that's why I have my domicile here and reside
My beloved likes reading and traveling
we have seen parts of the world a very lot
I have other kinds of interests, like humming
writing essays, feedbacking, listening to music,
and praying to God
building websites, designing cards and yes
conducting PC Help desks, bank-scanning, and chess
in London and Serfaus, musicals and skiing,
along the Mediterranean sea, enjoying life, love while driving
how do I do that, d'you really want to know, dear?
while whatsapping, driving fastest, and the music to the ear
really very simple, love in you, your whole soul in there,
just like our parents using tupperware
but ah, I like most to describe the love in poems I write
posting them for my beloved after that heavy night
since love is so important in our life
you must not take for granted but must strife
we can't miss it in our life its function
like: though sometimes on our highway a junction
it's like the great water of the mighty ocean
it has grip on you, you feel the strenght, but it's addiction
the strong water's ripples too, its mildness
you demand the best, the most but never less
and remember for ever that in the country I live in
the kind of love I'm so addicted to, is never a sin
in the end my heart and being will constantly see
my one and faithful Man,
for Thy most precious gift, I say to Thee
thank You, my Lord. Amen (fon.: A-'men)
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
*Plunge, colder+deeper, illuminosity, shame, boats,
fear, family, disappointment, roots, train,*
**Lights,
Camera,
Action:**
When you told me, “no”
you called me ******
and you became the Quarterback
you used to be.
You refused to watch
my musicals because football
“What real men do, boy”
ran in your blood.
So, I swore never to forgive
the blood that named me
your son because you threw
a pass and I didn’t have hands.
Winter was cold and the stage
was warm, unlike pigskin goose bumps
or Gatorade that you tried
to force onto my hands.
Then you finally came
to watch me sing
in Les Miserables and
you wept, warm tears.
“Proud of you, son”
you cried, and we wept
and my cold heart thawed
because of bloods warmth.
**Lights
Camera
Scene.**
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Talk to me
Talk to me about half-finished journals and empty theaters
Talk to me about the calluses on the soles of your feet
Do you think they look like art?
Talk to me about the bobby pins stuck between the sheets of your bed
Talk to me about the broken doorbell in your childhood house
Why have you never gotten it fixed?
Do you think it says a lot about your family?
Do you think it’s a metaphor for your parents’ relationship?
Talk to me about the ghosts in your head
I wanna see if they look like mine
If they were friends in some past, unfulfilled life
Talk to me about kites
Talk to me about knee high socks
What do they remind you of?
Talk to me about spilled lemonade
Does the sourness still linger on your tongue
Long after the mess as been mopped up?
Talk to me about your 10th grade English teacher
Do you resent her blatant favouritism?
Do you wonder why she didn’t like you the best?
Do you ever wonder why
It seems like nobody likes you the best?
Talk to me about the peonies in the garbage chute
Talk to me about untied shoelaces
And an 8 year old’s skinned knees
Talk to me about slippery floors
Talk to me about illegal downloads
Talk to me about Tarsiers
Talk to me about oil pastels
Do you prefer them over any other art medium
Because they are dirtier, messier and more difficult to work with it?
Talk to me about recycling
Do you think it’s pointless?
Or do you think it’s gonna make a significant difference?
Talk to me about Broadway musicals
Talk to me about Hercules
Have you ever dreamed of being immortalized
Through the whispering of the stars?
Talk to me about god
Do you think god made man
Or did man make god?
Talk to me about clay pots
Talk to me about cacti
Talk to me about the color grey
Talk to me about plastic balloons
When did you learn that the art of letting go
Is closely intertwined with the tragedy of loss?
Talk to me about films
Talk to me about knuckles
What do you tell your grandmother
When she asks why they are bruised and wounded?
Talk to me about Geishas
Talk to me about roadtrips
And that one time when you were 15
And you drove away in your older brother’s car
Feeling young and reckless and so so alive
Talk to me about pain
Every stabbing hurt
Every mouth filled with blood
Talk to me about joy
Both the abundance and the lack of it
Talk to me about love
And warmth
And light
And the sound of coming home
Talk to me
Write your life’s story on torn Christmas wrappers
And I will hold them in my hands like sacred beads of prayer
Talk to me
Open the cracks of your spine and engulf me in the shade of your eyes
Talk to me
Let me in
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
I am ravishing/ I’m awkward
I am desired/ I usually do the desiring
I’m pretty wonderful/ Some would say I am damaged goods
What else could you want in a female human?/ Not all you could want in a female human
Let’s be honest/ Let’s be honest
I am trim with some curves/I am not in stellar shape
I have freckled green eyes/I have wild eyebrows
Thick soft hair/Short-cropped hair
I’ve heard I smell great/Often I reek of the pool
Like a rich thick bouquet of flowers and soft earth/Like chlorine and hot damp air
I don't have a horrible sense of style/ I rarely ever match
I recycle/I have a messy dorm
I have a great sense of humor/I can be too loud
And will willingly watch any guy movie at least once/And I’m hooked on musicals
Quoting along the way/Quoting is a ridiculous habit of mine
I love to curse/ I can be crass
I don’t mind smoking, drinking, /I drink a lot and like that
All for typical male insanity/Sometimes I am a kill-joy
I’m warm/ I get too hot
Usually soft/My skin is really dry
And I care/ And I care
A lot/A lot
I care a lot/I care too much
About everything/About everything
You/You
Me/Me
Your grade in chemistry/Us
Ill tutor you,/ Ill tutor you
Console you/ Hang around
Advise you/ Pry into your life
Hold you/Even if you are against it
Comfort you/Pry into your life
So why/This is why
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:39 AM UTC
I am writing the last chapter. State fairs and musicals fill the city. A season for leaving is coming. The symptoms start to appear: endless music, parades, parties, carnavales, vacaciones. We soak our dreams in alcohol and hang them to dry. Smoke our **** trying to forget. They told me not to look back in anger but it looks the same in every city. She was all I’ve had, Maria. I met her in the trail of broken ankles. Or maybe it was in the woods, what’s the difference? Now, she has become a replaceable friend. I won’t grief, instead I’ll go out and shoot a star. Yesterday I saw her for the last time. It is the final level; she gives me a wine glass and I zip it down putting everything away. Time as a window, I try to fight this urge. All this moments will become deaf photographs, just a printed memory–a life of separated realities. I will just keep packing my suitcase chasing shadows. I drink and tell stories, some call it fantasy but I just bent over life and practice witchcraft. I am just tired of watching all the flowers turn to stone. I am afraid I will drift into words.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose stolen curtains leave gaping holes in the privacy of a building, stripped of laughter. The night peeks in through open doors, and rotted walls, where once soft incandescent light illuminated: a family portrait, childhood masterpieces, and a bookshelf once filled with books worn by the love of three souls who enjoyed nothing more than the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.
Along the North wall, where once the girl's bedroom sat proudly, gleaming with the banners of musicians and musicals, now rests rubble and ruin. Bereft of purpose, the house is weighed down, with the shame of being unable to shelter its family, with remorse from not withstanding, with guilt from the failure to hold together a family that deserved more than the inextricable truth that a life lived fully and completely in youth and virtue must come to a stop fully and completely.
No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose drawn curtains provide an honest glimpse into the life of a family, stripped of laughter. The day peeks in through an open door, across painted walls, where the soft morning light illuminates: a tough reminder, childhood innocence, and a bookshelf built with the love and attention of now two souls who try valiantly to remember the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object that he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him of the day, a part of the day
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
Climbing trees became a part of this child,
And playing catch, splashing in puddles, racing bikes down the block,
And tormenting neighbor kids,
And the falling down and the scraping of knees
Became a part of this child.
Nap time, time outs, smelling thyme and rosemary and lavender,
Digging through the crisp verdant garden
All became a part of this child.
Boy Scouts, dinosaur hunting, star searching, pencil drawing,
Became a part of him.
His own parents,
Reading aloud, arranging play dates, preparing snacks,
Supplying toys only to be forgotten about
for a stick or perhaps a box.
Mother off working, leaving by dawn, returning for dinner
And father, strict, the warden, always teaching responsibility,
Both becoming part of this child.
Vacations and swimming and visiting the grandparent and getting spoiled
Going to the zoo and seeing so many terrifying and exciting creatures.
His parents, always feeding and inspiring imagination
Becoming a part of him.
Walking to middle school became a part of him.
Lockers, combinations, IDs, pungent locker rooms, the labyrinth of halls
crowded and loud
The anticipation for lunch, the sweet sound of the three o'clock bell
The flurry toward the doors all became a part of him.
Pushups and crunches and laps and blown whistles
Loving every moment of the cool fresh air
Newfound freedom, licenses, cars, jobs
This responsibility became a part of him.
Plucking, scratching, squeaking, struggling, playing
Sounds of an unproven orchestra growing together,
All became a part of this boy.
Surviving the first day freshman year
So small, so young, so innocent
Growing, maturing, learning, all became a part of him.
School dances and football games and musicals and stress
Cool clay carefully sculpted, melodic rhythms played in tune, rubber ***** quickly dodged
AP class after AP class, notebook after notebook filled meticulously
New friendships formed, old friendships strengthened.
All this became a part of this child.
These became a part of that child who went forth every day
And who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC
My taste in music *****
Some days I can’t get through Warriors of Rock
Sometimes I can’t even cook the Ramen right,
you still interested?
I have a hole in the right ass-cheek of my favorite shorts
Family Guy is my favorite show
I hog the blankets when I cuddle
still interested?
I don’t get angry, instead I get super passive aggressive
I think that the law is over-rated but I follow it regardless
Sometimes I zone out so bad that I miss entire conversations
you sure you still interested?
I love watching musicals and independent films
I work in retail and make minimum wage
Some days I want to fuck. A lot.
haven’t run away yet? Wow.
Other days I like to just curl into a ball and pretend to fall asleep
I think you’re sexiest without make-up
Although, I don’t mind it on you at all
I can’t believe you’re still here...
I use AXE shower gel and wash my hair daily
I’m insane. Literally.
I think Star Wars is the shit. If you don’t, we aren’t meant to be
Oh, you stepped toward the door...
I don’t sleep and when I do I think of her
I wear my heart and my mind on my sleeve
And I can’t seem to let go
yeah... I didn’t think you’d stay.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC