I cant help it.
It consumes every fiber of my being.
I know it'll leave me torn, but something keeps drawing me in.
Its strength is captivating, and its aura is mysterious.
I wish I had the strength to blow in the wind like the mystery in question.
A soul that epitomizes compassion and the ability to nurture in my opinion.
A beautiful vision, one that will only exist in my dreams....It's all you.
I'm hopeless and alone, with no one to care for me anymore.
If only you could...
I'd wish you would save me.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
What was her life without it?
Nobody told her there'd be days like these, filled with the beautifully painstaking lyrics, whose soul purpose is to guide her through the rocky waves of the rhythmic path to her past...her only lifeline.
R.I.P. Sunnybrae Heaven's Little Girl 1984-1991.
Her days in your care may have faded far away like the day that she loved but having spent the moments that composed her existence, in your hands has broadened the infinite notion that will rest alongside the vibrant light of her nights, and the culmination of every step, every twirl, every smile, every skip, and every moment she belonged in, as a part of, for all of infinite eternity....
What I would only give to be one with her again, up above, with only his lyrical painting of the sky.
Music, the muse radiating through the echoes of my past.
R.I.P. Sunnybrae Heaven's Little Girl 1984-1991.
Her days in your care may have faded far away like the day that she loved but having spent the moments that composed her existence, in your hands has broadened the infinite notion that will rest alongside the vibrant light of her nights, and the culmination of every step, every twirl, every smile, every skip, and every moment she belonged in, as a part of, for all of infinite eternity....
What I would only give to be one with her again, up above, with only his lyrical painting of the sky.
Music, the muse radiating through the echoes of my past.
Without its echoes, I would not be.
Silence is not spoken here...
It is everything I remember and everything I miss. It is everything from riding on his downbound train, to the constant craving that keeps her awake at night.
It is lying under the bridge with my sister and listening to Jeremy's heartache.
It is the touch of the invisible breeze that stole the hold on my heart on that spring morning in 1990, while it left me paralyzed in thought of life with no wordly possessions.
From the moment her voice calmed my fears with I wish I was your lover to exhaling her last breath, in reassurance of never again having to revisit the sting of living just another day without him....
It will always begin in hope of the deliverance to free my six-year-old soul, and end with the undying echos of her knocking on heaven's door.
It is everything I remember and everything I miss. It is everything from riding on his downbound train, to the constant craving that keeps her awake at night.
It is lying under the bridge with my sister and listening to Jeremy's heartache.
It is the touch of the invisible breeze that stole the hold on my heart on that spring morning in 1990, while it left me paralyzed in thought of life with no wordly possessions.
From the moment her voice calmed my fears with I wish I was your lover to exhaling her last breath, in reassurance of never again having to revisit the sting of living just another day without him....
It will always begin in hope of the deliverance to free my six-year-old soul, and end with the undying echos of her knocking on heaven's door.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Her Mother's Kitchen
A sweet child rests her eyes, allowing the scent of delicious peace linger through her.
She learns by heart, and the manifestation of her childhood dreaming begins to call.
She is welcomed by the white sliding door that has sheltered the fragrance of her Mother’s Ash Reshteh for so long.
She envisions her Mother’s territory; caramel colored wood cabinets against the black refrigerator her Father had just bought from Sears fully equipped with the new fad, an ice and water machine.
The warm brew of Sadaf Earl Grey.
The glazed wooden pantry with shelves lined with wallpaper, circa 1970.
Stocked with anything that would cause a six year old, quite a sugar rush.
The memories of baking rice crispy treats with mommy float above her, as she watches the annual Thanksgiving turkey basting, with 15 women causing utter chaos, like lions fighting over their pray.
The scent of her heritage runs wild.
Friday night services culminate with her Mother’s Khoreshteh Bamiyeh.
Her taste buds were ever so thankful,
before the tumultuous winters of years to come brought her kitchen walls tumbling down.
The sweet bliss of Saturday morning breakfasts shine a sweet light upon her adolescent eyes.
She is full, within a haze of pure intense discontent.
She lies awake in a comatose state seventeen years into the future.
Her childhood dream has melted away.
Her Mother’s kitchen was hit by a tempest of lies 14 years prior.
What remains, is the spirit of a woman that once had such a vibrant aura.
A refrigerator that no longer freezes ice, as black, as the shadows of 15 women
who once shared such a love for one another have become,
and the aching corpse of an adolescent who has been left out in the cold…
Away from the warmth radiating from her Mother’s tea kettle, the sheltering walls where her parents love once kept her safe from harms way, and the trust that once gave life to her Mother’s kitchen.
She learns by heart, and the manifestation of her childhood dreaming begins to call.
She is welcomed by the white sliding door that has sheltered the fragrance of her Mother’s Ash Reshteh for so long.
She envisions her Mother’s territory; caramel colored wood cabinets against the black refrigerator her Father had just bought from Sears fully equipped with the new fad, an ice and water machine.
The warm brew of Sadaf Earl Grey.
The glazed wooden pantry with shelves lined with wallpaper, circa 1970.
Stocked with anything that would cause a six year old, quite a sugar rush.
The memories of baking rice crispy treats with mommy float above her, as she watches the annual Thanksgiving turkey basting, with 15 women causing utter chaos, like lions fighting over their pray.
The scent of her heritage runs wild.
Friday night services culminate with her Mother’s Khoreshteh Bamiyeh.
Her taste buds were ever so thankful,
before the tumultuous winters of years to come brought her kitchen walls tumbling down.
The sweet bliss of Saturday morning breakfasts shine a sweet light upon her adolescent eyes.
She is full, within a haze of pure intense discontent.
She lies awake in a comatose state seventeen years into the future.
Her childhood dream has melted away.
Her Mother’s kitchen was hit by a tempest of lies 14 years prior.
What remains, is the spirit of a woman that once had such a vibrant aura.
A refrigerator that no longer freezes ice, as black, as the shadows of 15 women
who once shared such a love for one another have become,
and the aching corpse of an adolescent who has been left out in the cold…
Away from the warmth radiating from her Mother’s tea kettle, the sheltering walls where her parents love once kept her safe from harms way, and the trust that once gave life to her Mother’s kitchen.
My Brooklyn Escape
This place...
My safe haven.
It is no longer what it once was.
I'm so over this town…
Seeing faces of people you once used to know.
This town is crazy.
Even the clouds are dark and hazy.
How could they all have become so shady?
I wish to retreat to that jungle of green.
Under that tree where his spirit lies in dream.
A place where my thoughts can explore
the inner workings of my bliss.
A place of supernatural ecstasy.
Living a fantasy compelled by content, yet interrupted
by the falling of a facade.
My life's fallacy has been exposed.
I close my eyes.
I hear the clatter of dishes breaking.
The pitter-patter of a three year old,
and the chatter of commotion.
Interrupted by the chaos caused by her tears.
I wish to retreat to the home of my desires.
As tall as Brooklyn's skyscrapers.
Interrupted by rain, the demise of
my papier-mâché sculpture of serenity.
As diverse as my individuality,
Yet fallen in deep holes of conformity,
like my crochet blanket, lacking in warmth.
A place I yearn for far away from here, yet composed
by my lifelong fear.
Isn't it ironic?
A queen at a Gala, with her legs unshaven.
A criminal found innocent.
A beauty harboring a life of mystery.
A profound act of unkindness.
A moment of death prolonged.
Interrupted by a weak heart strong enough to hold on.
It is a place clear across the ocean of hope.
Where living for yesterday is okay.
Living for tomorrow needs no masquerade,
and yearning to feel comes without an
impression to be afraid.
A place where nobody knows my name.
Where passer bys dressed in flannel suits
play flutes, and engage in a childhood game of
Chutes and Ladders with me.
Where exhilaration is standing on the edge.
A cliff overlooking your past.
Where memories of Jiff peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches float above you,
and your Grandmother's split pea is once again
your favorite treat.
My safe haven, resurrected.
A rebirth of my shattered expectations.
I have found my place…
amongst the clouds mirroring his memory.
A place of bliss,
found in the evocative scent of Mom's liver and onions.
Where who I am today, walks hand in hand, with who I was then.
Lifelong companions.
This is my Brooklyn escape.
On the edge of twenty-three, awaken from a deep slumber
to a place where endings are no longer killing me slow,
and the divine rapture of life is upon me.
I feel complacent.
My safe haven.
It is no longer what it once was.
I'm so over this town…
Seeing faces of people you once used to know.
This town is crazy.
Even the clouds are dark and hazy.
How could they all have become so shady?
I wish to retreat to that jungle of green.
Under that tree where his spirit lies in dream.
A place where my thoughts can explore
the inner workings of my bliss.
A place of supernatural ecstasy.
Living a fantasy compelled by content, yet interrupted
by the falling of a facade.
My life's fallacy has been exposed.
I close my eyes.
I hear the clatter of dishes breaking.
The pitter-patter of a three year old,
and the chatter of commotion.
Interrupted by the chaos caused by her tears.
I wish to retreat to the home of my desires.
As tall as Brooklyn's skyscrapers.
Interrupted by rain, the demise of
my papier-mâché sculpture of serenity.
As diverse as my individuality,
Yet fallen in deep holes of conformity,
like my crochet blanket, lacking in warmth.
A place I yearn for far away from here, yet composed
by my lifelong fear.
Isn't it ironic?
A queen at a Gala, with her legs unshaven.
A criminal found innocent.
A beauty harboring a life of mystery.
A profound act of unkindness.
A moment of death prolonged.
Interrupted by a weak heart strong enough to hold on.
It is a place clear across the ocean of hope.
Where living for yesterday is okay.
Living for tomorrow needs no masquerade,
and yearning to feel comes without an
impression to be afraid.
A place where nobody knows my name.
Where passer bys dressed in flannel suits
play flutes, and engage in a childhood game of
Chutes and Ladders with me.
Where exhilaration is standing on the edge.
A cliff overlooking your past.
Where memories of Jiff peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches float above you,
and your Grandmother's split pea is once again
your favorite treat.
My safe haven, resurrected.
A rebirth of my shattered expectations.
I have found my place…
amongst the clouds mirroring his memory.
A place of bliss,
found in the evocative scent of Mom's liver and onions.
Where who I am today, walks hand in hand, with who I was then.
Lifelong companions.
This is my Brooklyn escape.
On the edge of twenty-three, awaken from a deep slumber
to a place where endings are no longer killing me slow,
and the divine rapture of life is upon me.
I feel complacent.
Unafraid
1984-2008
I see it clearly.
I've lived through it all completely terrified of committing the act that lingers along... a deep sore that stings with the harsh arrival it perpetuates upon my flesh.
Something came over me the day he died, and I welcomed the world through her eyes...
That fear of not knowing was stripped away from me, and I lay there, cold, hollow, ready, and awake... a sleepless child, fearless.
Sometimes, some children go on without a solid purpose, or a purpose found too late in the game of life.
Her name was Baby Brae, and the child within her, who held such passion and promise towards her endeavors, died 18 years ago along with her father's fun and loving soul.
I remember her, and I remember her well.
Nobody will see the world through her eyes ever again...not even the one whose spirit she resides in today.
I push, she pushed.
I cry, she cried.
I hope, she hoped.
I keep trying, she kept trying as long as he allowed her to...
She reached for the stars, I keep reaching, but the stars move further away...
That hold on my heart, will no longer win me over.
The thought of her, will no longer break me deep inside.
My patience has run out, and for once in my life, I am unafraid.
No matter where I go, those 24 years just shy of 2 months, will always be with me...
Bye Mommy, I am so sorry....
I hate to say goodbye to everything my sight ever blessed me with, but
The days get harder and harder, and my unknown purpose drifts further and further away.
The hours get opaque, dense with difficult memories, and the minutes become transparent, baring my life for the cruel world to see....
I may never fall in love, get married or have children.
I may never graduate, and become an english writer in my own right...
All I know is that I lived to the best of my ability with the cards that were dealt to me...
...and that will always be what was validating enough for me.
I see it clearly.
I've lived through it all completely terrified of committing the act that lingers along... a deep sore that stings with the harsh arrival it perpetuates upon my flesh.
Something came over me the day he died, and I welcomed the world through her eyes...
That fear of not knowing was stripped away from me, and I lay there, cold, hollow, ready, and awake... a sleepless child, fearless.
Sometimes, some children go on without a solid purpose, or a purpose found too late in the game of life.
Her name was Baby Brae, and the child within her, who held such passion and promise towards her endeavors, died 18 years ago along with her father's fun and loving soul.
I remember her, and I remember her well.
Nobody will see the world through her eyes ever again...not even the one whose spirit she resides in today.
I push, she pushed.
I cry, she cried.
I hope, she hoped.
I keep trying, she kept trying as long as he allowed her to...
She reached for the stars, I keep reaching, but the stars move further away...
That hold on my heart, will no longer win me over.
The thought of her, will no longer break me deep inside.
My patience has run out, and for once in my life, I am unafraid.
No matter where I go, those 24 years just shy of 2 months, will always be with me...
Bye Mommy, I am so sorry....
I hate to say goodbye to everything my sight ever blessed me with, but
The days get harder and harder, and my unknown purpose drifts further and further away.
The hours get opaque, dense with difficult memories, and the minutes become transparent, baring my life for the cruel world to see....
I may never fall in love, get married or have children.
I may never graduate, and become an english writer in my own right...
All I know is that I lived to the best of my ability with the cards that were dealt to me...
...and that will always be what was validating enough for me.
Pop
I sit around thinking every second of my life. In wonder I remain, wishing for a chance to see you again in the sweet light of Sunnybrae Heaven. The pain keeps me awake in a comatose state, yet dead when it comes to exceeding my talent and ambitions in school, work, and life after it all.....all I can say is that the deep intangible hollowness of your heart has manifested itself into this force within me not to be reckoned with....
I will love and hate you nonetheless, as I swim through my lifelong river of tears to that place where the beautiful 41-year-old I once knew smothers the sweet spirit of a little girl in kisses...
It's that place where my past with you will no longer have a hold on me, and where the tears no longer fight to win over my pursuit of success and happiness within.
That place that aides in allowing the bruises to fade, yet allowing the memories to exist vibrant amongst the rest...for all eternity.
I love you my Papa, though I'll never forgive, nor forget.....
I will love and hate you nonetheless, as I swim through my lifelong river of tears to that place where the beautiful 41-year-old I once knew smothers the sweet spirit of a little girl in kisses...
It's that place where my past with you will no longer have a hold on me, and where the tears no longer fight to win over my pursuit of success and happiness within.
That place that aides in allowing the bruises to fade, yet allowing the memories to exist vibrant amongst the rest...for all eternity.
I love you my Papa, though I'll never forgive, nor forget.....
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Lifeline
My Past.
It was what it was, and it was sweet, and simple.
Sweet simplicity that will forever linger on in my memory...
He lies away from reality, asleep in a twisted dream.
She waits in denial, awake in wonder of this country and its impurities perpetuated upon her daughter’s aching corpse.
Her daughter lives in regression, dead within the confines of her childhood home.
Upon the sight of what encompassed the harsh truths, she crumbles in the bitter sweetness of what all 3 beautiful mortals once called home.
She looks through tainted eyes. The flow of the saxophone echoes through her ears. Her heart succumbs to an ideal of calm; reminiscent of home.
She looks still...She can see her childhood spirit sitting on the rocks,
She can see her Father’s red Toyota parked in the driveway,
She can see herself falling off her bike in dire need of help, being chased by the Golden retriever from across the way.
She can see it all, all in a dream of moments past. She bats her eyelashes, to make sense of the cloud in front of her. Her tears blend into the light radiating from the lantern. She comes to, and senses the physical sting of waiting for a moment that may never come again.
She can drown and the souls of time passed will no longer lend a hand...
No longer do a man and his wife lie sheltered in each other’s arms. The bedroom in the far left corner is void of any such fairytale-evoked emotion. That man lies alone away from the recent "love of his life" in their time of trials and tribulations....and, that woman sits up waiting, wishing and hoping...in the arms of a warm aura, transferred into a shadow...a manifestation of the sweet intimacy that sheltered her long ago.
She remembers in vain. She breaks down due to its enduring pain.
She is not ashamed of what she had; she is just saddened by the thought of no longer having it.
She hears the echo of that saxophone radiating heat throughout her weakened body accompanied by her soulful cry, and yet all she wishes for is just one more night...
Not just for her, but for all three beautiful mortals that transcend time, alongside one another with every beat of that distinct drum, and flow of the saxophone.
It was what it was, and it was sweet, and simple.
Sweet simplicity that will forever linger on in my memory...
He lies away from reality, asleep in a twisted dream.
She waits in denial, awake in wonder of this country and its impurities perpetuated upon her daughter’s aching corpse.
Her daughter lives in regression, dead within the confines of her childhood home.
Upon the sight of what encompassed the harsh truths, she crumbles in the bitter sweetness of what all 3 beautiful mortals once called home.
She looks through tainted eyes. The flow of the saxophone echoes through her ears. Her heart succumbs to an ideal of calm; reminiscent of home.
She looks still...She can see her childhood spirit sitting on the rocks,
She can see her Father’s red Toyota parked in the driveway,
She can see herself falling off her bike in dire need of help, being chased by the Golden retriever from across the way.
She can see it all, all in a dream of moments past. She bats her eyelashes, to make sense of the cloud in front of her. Her tears blend into the light radiating from the lantern. She comes to, and senses the physical sting of waiting for a moment that may never come again.
She can drown and the souls of time passed will no longer lend a hand...
No longer do a man and his wife lie sheltered in each other’s arms. The bedroom in the far left corner is void of any such fairytale-evoked emotion. That man lies alone away from the recent "love of his life" in their time of trials and tribulations....and, that woman sits up waiting, wishing and hoping...in the arms of a warm aura, transferred into a shadow...a manifestation of the sweet intimacy that sheltered her long ago.
She remembers in vain. She breaks down due to its enduring pain.
She is not ashamed of what she had; she is just saddened by the thought of no longer having it.
She hears the echo of that saxophone radiating heat throughout her weakened body accompanied by her soulful cry, and yet all she wishes for is just one more night...
Not just for her, but for all three beautiful mortals that transcend time, alongside one another with every beat of that distinct drum, and flow of the saxophone.
I Remember
I remember a place called home, with your chaotic winters, and what a whirlwind of a lost soul you were...and the thing is, I still look back at that precious time, despite my despair, in utter wonder of everything it was.
It is the distinct loss of everything you once encompassed that makes my life quite unbearable.
It is the radiance of the aura you once acquired, which makes waking up something that can wait.
It is the notion that I will never be blessed with the spirit that was once my sweet father, which makes life worth nothing.
It is the pain of missing you immensely, regardless of what you had done to instill such ambivalence within me.
It is and will always be the fact that you once loved me, even if it may not hold true for you anymore.
It is fighting the cancer of my soul, in hopes of one day seeing the man I once had known to be my father, and it is fighting the truth, that there is no hope, and I will never see the real you again.
I will live wishing to have said goodbye to you, and I will die knowing the chance wont ever come. Regardless, I still wish your battered mind some eternal peace.
Farewell to you my father, and everything your spirit once meant to me.
I miss my papa.
It is the distinct loss of everything you once encompassed that makes my life quite unbearable.
It is the radiance of the aura you once acquired, which makes waking up something that can wait.
It is the notion that I will never be blessed with the spirit that was once my sweet father, which makes life worth nothing.
It is the pain of missing you immensely, regardless of what you had done to instill such ambivalence within me.
It is and will always be the fact that you once loved me, even if it may not hold true for you anymore.
It is fighting the cancer of my soul, in hopes of one day seeing the man I once had known to be my father, and it is fighting the truth, that there is no hope, and I will never see the real you again.
I will live wishing to have said goodbye to you, and I will die knowing the chance wont ever come. Regardless, I still wish your battered mind some eternal peace.
Farewell to you my father, and everything your spirit once meant to me.
I miss my papa.
Friday, April 18, 2008
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