"unused" poems
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.
If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.
If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.
If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?
If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
When we met, love Obnubilated me.
I became bananas about you.
I wanted to be luculent.
Just to be Pauciliquent.
I however felt like a blatherskite.
You probably thought I was a glaikit.
Did I sound like a meacock instead?
If so, it’s due to kakorrhaphiophobia.
I might have operose my feelings.
Did it seem like I wanna mamaguy you?
You behaved like a frondeur.
Your callipygian body looked extramundane.
Your hair looked ulitichous.
Did you feel like I lusted your Callipygian shape?
I foresaw a love that won’t flatline.
If it does, it will be eucatastrophe.
Now we’re together, I’m disenthrall from Misogamy.
You’re a deipnosophist and a mixologist.
I’m edcious.
To keep you happy, I share a boffola.
To me, love felt like a Humdudgeon.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability
imagine that
where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain
imagine that
the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be
imagine that
a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free
imagine that
and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed
imagine that
you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret
I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when
we imagine that
for this how new healthy cells are born
quiet-now, go, imagine-that, now*
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
She was cold
My mind
She was bored
She put on her boots
Took her cigarette
And went out
Strolling among stony faces
No face could wear a wrinkle
No ear could bear a ring
There were lots and lost of smiles
Some pink some red
unused and still brand new
all over the streets
She touched her lips to make sure she's wearing them
She had rings too
and so many wrinkles
then there were some smiles piled up in a puddle
She bent to take off her boots
and let her toes touch some
they were cold and wet
She started a vague monologue
to make her bear the city
she was bored with
She wanted to leave
she let other smiles
took her cigarettes
suddenly she realized
a sad face there was
a stony face but he was sad
as if he was not made of stone
with no smile but with a mask
She detected a slight wrinkle under the mask
and a monologue to bear the city too
she told to herself oh God we would make more and more wrinkles
and bear the city till the train comes
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
My hate is the unused love
The love that was not accepted
Everyone saw that quiet, lonely shell
But merely flicked it away
I walked alone
I sat alone
I had this love
This unwanted love
No one to give it to
No way to show it
So I learned how to hate
This love turned sour
Covered in black
Scrape away the darkness,
You'll end up back
The hatred filled me like love once did
And like love,
There was no one to give it to
Like always,
I was alone
So the hatred simmered
The darkness calmed down
And turned dark blue
It was sadness
Suffocating sadness
The muggy air filled my lungs
Condensation pouring out of my eyes
The love was being chipped away
Was there any love at all?
And here I sit
With a line for a mouth
And tired eyes
I'm still alone
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
I think I started writing you away before you were gone
I wanted to make sure I could let you go before I did
I wanted to feel numb when I pushed you away
so I wrote
I put you on pages,
typed chapter titles for every single time you looked at me
I wrote until you were a novel,
read you until you were no longer novel,
and put you on a shelf so I could start waiting to forget about you,
a memory trapped in unused synapses
and after I shut your final chapter
but before your pages had started to collect dust,
I realized what I had done
See, I had taken each word from within me,
harvested my heartstrings, plucking them and mixing them to make ink,
The pieces of you I kept in my heart
sat as words on a page, aging
while my heart, once strong, felt too empty
and cavernous to beat under the weight of the sigh pinning down my chest
In all of my preparing
I had forgotten that I am human
I forgot feelings aren't like a fountain
there's no faucet you can turn off to keep them from
running through your mind
no way to stop them from flowing
back through your mouth when you try to
swallow them, mixed with *** in your best friend's basement,
days after you forgot that you can't turn off a rainstorm
you can try to catch the raindrops in a bucket
but the bucket you'll need is big enough to drown in
you can try to hold out an umbrella
but if the wind is hard enough
you're still going to end up cold and dripping,
tearstained and shivering
waiting until the sun comes out
I forgot that I can't control the weather,
or anything other than myself for that matter
The end of a storm doesn't equate to the appearance of a rainbow
I realized that just because my fingers twisted around yours until
they melted together doesn't mean you'll forgive me
and that you left tattoos on me that only time will fade
and we're both going to be mad
I found out that
every song that ever reminded me of you doesn't cease to exist
I have to re-watch movies because they're different now, somehow,
and just because my hair is probably still all over your clothes
and I talked to you every day
and you gave me months of memories
and thinking about you is gut-wrenching
doesn't mean that I won't spend days praying for patience
and hoping for healing because
**** it, letting you go doesn't mean I don't miss you*
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain
Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives
Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade
Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
My Solace
when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,
when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,
when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,
when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,
Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,
I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,
my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Vulnerable is what I am
When I let the real me outside
It's not safe, sometimes, to be so carefree
Should I risk hurt, or play safe and hide?
But people who love me keep asking me
To open my heart up to them
I don't know why that's so uncomfortable
I guess vulnerable is not what I am
The few times I've worn my heart on my sleeve
My words never came out right
So I've practiced being less vulnerable
And kept my real thoughts out of sight
People keep saying to use more words
But I fear I'll be misunderstood
Maybe I won't express myself right
Or I'll say way more than I should
Words, I've found, are containers for thoughts
I don't know why I sit here and hoard them
When I store them unspoken, my thoughts sit unused
Unshared—a container unopened
It's a little like having a pantry of food
And keeping it all to myself
Food's meant to be shared, and if it is not
It helps no one—just rots on the shelf
And that's how it is with my words kept inside
If love doesn't share them some way
My thoughts stored inside these containers called words
Can spoil and turn bitter someday
I used to complain that people didn't understand me
And for that I would silently resent them
But the silence, I now see, is of my own making—
If they don't know me, it's because I haven't let them
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
long ago,
I could tame a lion with the click of a pen,
watch the teeth burn to ashes in his jaw,
and his gums bleed, dripping with every word.
drip, drop.
funny how lions are a symbol of God.
funny how, I used to glance into the
cold black irises of my strongest demon,
and tell myself I loved him.
every boy I've ever written for
seems to vanish before the novel ends,
before the sun sets, before they think-
maybe,
"it's safe to leave her before she falls in love"
little do they know that love was my oxygen,
love was my unused journal
from a lost friend,
love was nothing until I met you.
you cannot be another night
without razor sharp stars in the sky.
you cannot be the hundreds of songs
I can no longer ******* listen to.
you cannot be another Willow Springs-
another road I think I've traveled,
I've seen children pray on the corners of Italy;
I've seen mountains breathe
and thought it would be my last time
kissing their snowy tops.
I've seen straight into the
amber eyes of the lion
as I lay under fluorescent lights
with sixteen pills rattling in my stomach,
thinking maybe,
the King of the Jungle will release me
with His jaws of life.
but the truth is,
you are the only god I believe in.
you are my savior,
you are the King of the Jungle
and the closest thing to heaven
I will ever know.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
I understand.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot.
In the puzzle of your routine.
I know.
How thoughts can become clocks.
The terrifying performance of repeat.
I share it.
Your idea of total estrangement.
Blonde avenues without a silver soul.
I believe you.
Those sharp ideas to break free.
To be ruled by pure impulse.
I’ve got your back.
That plan to draw meaning.
To assist others to pleasure.
I realize that too.
That you’re at the edge of the night.
That you’ve got goosebumps as stars on your skin.
I do not deny it.
The vastness of every unused minute.
Cold, the cold bored instant.
I share your opposition.
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
How small a part of life can sting.
I know.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot .
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
m*any days I feel it isn't worth it
it is better I end it
I just do not fit
right
Small disappointments
unfilled expectations
make my daily lessons
I am no longer surprised
gifted with so many unused liberties
armed with many facilities
having all basic amenities
why still unsatisfied?
my thirst for what?
but compare it to so many of them
where do my problems stand
should my opinions even matter
God still has to hear my many complaints
every other day
No wonder he doesn't listen,
I wouldn't too.
Blessed with so much
wasted it all
on being this bitter self I hate
my present state draws the ugly future
and the only cure
is to feel gratitude
on the things I still have
on my conscience who still cares*.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
remember your first bicycle?
i was so happy, so eager to learn,
i remember going through so much pain
falling on my face, picked up by my dad
as i cried and he kissed my feet saying
'there, it's all good now'
but then the bicycle ended up being my life
for a few short years
but then it is too small, and i was too big
i have grown, and it hadn't.
so i said goodbye and put it on the corner of the garage.
bought a brand new one.
i realize now, it's kind of like you and me.
you have grown, back then, and i hadn't.
you've made other friends, and i hadn't.
that's why when i'm not what you wanted,
not what you needed anymore, you left,
little by little.
you replaced me, just like the yellow bicycle
that leans onto the wall, unused and forgotten.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
Early.
I became the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, unwarranted, but there, needed.
Rubber and worn, worn away to the thinnest part, and still used.
Hands became words, and hugs became extinct, tears became invisible, the 'childhood' was erased.
Diabetes became my mother, known as rejection, and depression, her twin, known as rage.
Insulin and Fluoxetine became my equally demanding toddlers; I was feeding a family of 6 at the age of 8.
Later.
I watched my brother become a tortured child, in his sleep - the sound of his waterproof sheets would keep me awake, as i lay worried that his screams were words he could not utter at his age.
I watched my sister grow cold as she watch her house burning down around her, and crying tears at the loss of her childhood, her eyes burned at me.
As i looked in the mirror, when i cried, i would flush the toilet just to hear what it feels like to be washed away.
Disappeared down the drain.
I shrunk 4 inches in 4 years, one inch for each bottle of poison, that said 'drink me'.
I shrunk 4 inches in another 4 years for every word that said 'eat me'.
I shrunk so that I could not grow, up.
Later still.
I became broken, hard to 'fix'.
I became lost, without a cause.
I became the rebel, odd-one-out.
Family grew fractured, broken mirrors lay on all our floors, that we skirted around, lest we should bled it all out, what had happened.
Relationships broke, one after another, after, another, after, another, after....
Faces lost feeling, words became laws, feelings became problems, love became, raw and unused.
We dissipated, dissolved, into a million pieces of broken, into the world, held together by very thin words of 'family'
Now.
I am not a child anymore.
It's time to be heard.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
*The Warm Yellow In This Freezing Sunrise,
Reminds Me Of The Marigold We Picked,
And The Greyish Brown Of The Dirtied Snow,
Reminds Me Of The Woodticks You Picked Off Me,
The Lights Of These Passing Cars,
Remind Me Of Your Bona Fide Smile,
And The Crows In The Trees Remind Me Of,
The Crisp Mornings On Your Terrain,
And Now I Realize There Is No Word Loud Enough,
No Song Too Masculine Yet Gentle To Wish You Goodbye,
And There Is No Poem Beautiful Enough,
To Lead You Properly To Your New World*
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
Grant me patience.
Remove my haste.
Let me revel youth
and not let it waste.
Grant me power
and the means to use it
Help me see worth
in powers unused yet.
Grant me success
free from acclaim
let me keep my spirit and
you may keep my name.
Grant me vision
to see what my eyes don’t
And help me mend all
that these times won’t.
Grant me miracles
and grant them often
on the grave of hope
let the daffodils blossom.
Grant me acknowledgement
on an endless list of names
remembered not for what I was
but rather what I became.
Grant me forgiveness
for the prayer I have ranted.
Grant me gratitude
for having taken much for granted.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
The television blares, it blinks, it shakes
A cup falls out of the cabinet, it flies, it jumps
They shatter.
Someone's banging on the door, they scream, they holler
She's laughing in your ear, a witch-like cackle
Ha-ha-ha That's all she's says, that's all she does
You keep your head facing forward, don't dare to look around
It's all madness, the footsteps on the ground
Who's creeping down the stairs, you didn't have guests
Who opened the window, who made such a mess?
The laughing
The constant laughing like chimes, it intensifies
Cold sweat, warm tears,
Your body is paralyzed in face of your greatest fears
Do it! Punch a wall, kick a desk!
But sweetie, there is no time for rest.
We must go, we must hurry!
They're almost here!
Who? You feel dizzy. Not another surprise please, I beg you, not another.
The room starts spinning, the ceiling circles you like a volchar.
The small man, with the elf-like features, he's tugging your arm
He's pulling you, as she laughs with such insanity your stomach churns.
Who are these people, what is this hell
A piercing scream is released into the air,
You believe it was your own, but with all the creatures yelling in your ear, you can't be certain.
The noises crank up, the objects fly off the walls
The TV changes from loud channel to channel, from voices to white noise
This is the worst, this is the peak
But suddenly it all stops with a screech.
The tv is in its place, normal channel, normal news
All the items are in their spot, all organized, all unused
There is no laughing. There is no man. There are no footsteps. There is no pulling hand.
But it was all there. You know it was.
Silence. Eery silence.
Now you're left in the confusion of your own mind.
But perhaps you've been there the whole time.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.
Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.
Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.
Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter
I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.
Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.
Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.
When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.
Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.
Could I be your ladybird?
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
From the age of seven, I decided it was easier
to throw myself against a wall
than to cause any harm to the stuffed animal under my arm.
I attribute feelings to everything that can be touched
or confirmed by science –
on May 23rd, the wind wanted a companion,
by July, it lived with a birdhouse, in a happy yellow –
and so I fear hurting a chair,
suffocating my hairbrush through tangles, angering some
blankets left unused at the end of our bed.
I do not fear hurt, I fear causing it. I smack my head with a
fist when mother says
that sometimes punching pillows can help ease pain
because I need to stay on their good side.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Vague recollections,
Of curio collections,
Salt and pepper shakers, unused
crystal ashtrays, reflecting rainbows
of northern prairie light on days bright.
A prairie girl, did you miss the place near the Arctic Circle,
your home? Did Odin and Freya call you away from here to
there, or was Thor, or Loki the thunder in your angry voice
that I feared and may have hid under the steep basement
stairs, quietly in the dark hoping you were unaware.
Some of your children, and
your spouse, left before you did,
I know that was tough, and a shame.
You were tougher, though, you did
suffer in you aging frame.
I know you loved us all, I know you knew me too,
very early you said of me "he is a sensitive child", which
I have found to be all too true, many years after you have
gone I miss you, grandpa and dad, Audrey and Vic too.
Did you all find Valhalla at Heaven's Gate?
So I will not stir up the past, nor
will I hurry, through each day, for
I will remember, and smile at those
memories that brought me joy, prose
and rhyme not of a child, but a Viking man.
©DWE032013
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC