Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Zola Jesus - Skin
This is going to be quite possibly the hardest assignment I have ever had to accomplish. I know that I will relive all the tears I had shed in order to write these poems in the first place, and I know that I will shed many more in order to immortalize my past within my thesis. I pray that afterwards, I will find myself in the most calming of places. I will walk away a learned poet, with skin tougher than it has ever been, hopelessly devoted to my adolescence; having found it a home within bound pages in which it will always stay loud, carefree and young.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Truth Hurts
I wonder if it'll ever stop; this decade-old blue funk I've been in crisscrossed by the most minute inklings of my own, personal pacificity. I am hopeful and more productive than I have been in a long time and still my subconscious willingly opens its arms, welcoming the tricks that this world plays upon the strings of my heart without any remorse.
I've been told to keep my true life quiet, but I can't; this is me. I speak about it all, everything that you find negative within me in hopes that someday, someone can find the courage to do it too. I have been told to make change happen instead of sulking. I want the life I know I deserve, and I'm here to tell you that I will never stray away from exposing what I deem necessary. I am not a victim but I am very sad and I refuse to be ashamed because I am. This is me and it always has been. I am no longer the one who waits for change to happen, and I will never again let you tell me that the reason things remain the same is because of any wrongdoing on my part. I am deeply trying, here, and at this very moment, there is nothing, nothing, NOTHING left for you to say.
I've been told to keep my true life quiet, but I can't; this is me. I speak about it all, everything that you find negative within me in hopes that someday, someone can find the courage to do it too. I have been told to make change happen instead of sulking. I want the life I know I deserve, and I'm here to tell you that I will never stray away from exposing what I deem necessary. I am not a victim but I am very sad and I refuse to be ashamed because I am. This is me and it always has been. I am no longer the one who waits for change to happen, and I will never again let you tell me that the reason things remain the same is because of any wrongdoing on my part. I am deeply trying, here, and at this very moment, there is nothing, nothing, NOTHING left for you to say.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Can I Ever Get It Back?
I used to write short stories while everything exciting was happening to those around me. If I cared to join them then the excitement in my life would have never seen a chance. I believe that I had something that couldn't be touched. Something that kept me speaking; tangled in cherished discourse with characters I had never met in real life, even though if this took the shape of my real life, I would never have one qualm with it. Birthing the climatic situations of their lives came easy; it's fortifying any present execution of them that has become trying.
Writing began when I was a happy sixth grader; when the excitement of being in junior high and then high school prompted daydreaming in class about the crush I had that present hour, which then allowed my characters to share a kiss or act out that teenage relationship that I wouldn’t see until the tenth grade and then mourn its loss for what seemed like forever after. Writing began when I was impressionable, morphed into something necessary to survive when I no longer was and died when I realized there was nothing left to fight for.
Every year when I clean out my past stored in plastic bins upon plastic bins, I come across that black pee chee folder torn at its fold, filled with 150 stories I spent writing either in Mr. Kidder's American Government or at home on Wednesday nights watching Party of Five, while my parents hollered in excitement at the NBA playoffs emanating through that little Toshiba television set that will live long with an unsavory reputation, yet with a twinge of something that will always make me smile in service of it.
All I heard then was the sound of happiness. I only wish pleasant stimulation could hit me the way it did then, now.
Writing began when I was a happy sixth grader; when the excitement of being in junior high and then high school prompted daydreaming in class about the crush I had that present hour, which then allowed my characters to share a kiss or act out that teenage relationship that I wouldn’t see until the tenth grade and then mourn its loss for what seemed like forever after. Writing began when I was impressionable, morphed into something necessary to survive when I no longer was and died when I realized there was nothing left to fight for.
Every year when I clean out my past stored in plastic bins upon plastic bins, I come across that black pee chee folder torn at its fold, filled with 150 stories I spent writing either in Mr. Kidder's American Government or at home on Wednesday nights watching Party of Five, while my parents hollered in excitement at the NBA playoffs emanating through that little Toshiba television set that will live long with an unsavory reputation, yet with a twinge of something that will always make me smile in service of it.
All I heard then was the sound of happiness. I only wish pleasant stimulation could hit me the way it did then, now.
Monday, January 9, 2012
It's Been 365 Days
You have brought me the most insatiable appetite for love. You are the man I've always dreamt of and written about. You make me want nothing more than to write the best fairytale ending that any story has ever seen.
It’s been 365 Days.
No other man has ever crossed this threshold and I thank you for loving me longer than they ever thought possible. Thank you for believing in my worthiness. Thank you for allowing me to be myself, and thank you for being the man that I miss even when you're sitting right beside me.
You fuel the fire that resides deep within my longing to taste childhood again. You calm me down, gently, each time I realize I can’t. You make me want to pursue my pipe dreams and to be better at everything and to everyone that I have ever let down.
You build me up with the cognizance that my writing is of respectable substance all the while trusting that I am incapable of ever having let anyone down.
I am at fault more than I led on. I admit this here, without retraction.
I am one stubborn woman.
I have major anxiety and dislike when you try to fix it.
I react in ways a reserved lady never should.
I am an angry little bitch.
I have a major crush on you.
I am thankful for all that had happened before I came around, even though I know it hurt.
I fear things like the future, but I embrace all the uncertainty that comes with this strange love.
This is one rollercoaster I’d wait hours to ride without a Fastpass.
Here’s to waiting as many years possible together.
Happy anniversary to you, my 6ft-something pollywog. ♥
Monday, October 24, 2011
First Boyfriend
September 5, 2000 11:53am
"If you’re going to cheat on your boyfriend make sure you break up with him first, you ugly bitch!"
As I turned to see my friends walk back to class without a care — I came to realize, as I rubbed the streaks of mascara off my face, that my life would never be the same.
I remember lying under the covers when
our premature, first autumn began to fall; an October
night, pale as my lips were cold — abandoned by
blood's refusal to play warmth into November. This
hand evicted out from your glove; my father’s panic
found reprieve. Those childhood dreams of falling
down had come back; hitting the ground - safety
net occupied.
*
November 11, 2000 9:14pm
“I never meant to hurt you. Kissing him meant nothing. You’re the one I want.”
Your flesh at Seventeen— I wanted to relish every inch.
I remember rainy days where we’d seek refuge under your
umbrella, standing on the senior quad in all its emptiness, our
tongues submissive to lunch hour’s destiny. My skin pervasive
in resting eau de cologne, your neck stained in the hue of
habitual love letters — prime accessories in marking
clothed, sexual territory.
*
November 11, 2001 5:13pm
“This isn’t going anywhere. All we do is fight and plus, you’ve yet to let me fuck you.”
I remember your house. Careful in her home, I gained back
your mother’s trust after breaking your virginal heart. I remember
the night I slept over: running away with lies left on my home’s
answering machine, twirling spaghetti, sipping raspberry wine,
listening to wind chimes in blind rapture with the dry Santa Anas.
You undressed my inexperienced teenage frame.
Fearful as your finger let itself slide, I remembered the stained-glass butterfly missing its wing.
*
July 20, 2003 4:37pm
“I’ll call you back.”
“No you won’t.”
“I can’t take your shit anymore. I can’t talk right now with you harping at me. I’ll call you back.”
I was tested on young love. The welcome to cheat—wrapped in those
muscular arms, long through frayed edges of his cotton t-shirt— consented.
I can say I suffered along with you though you’d swiftly overturn my parole,
calling it a bluff, sentencing my capacity to assault fledgling emotions to further
rehabilitation.
*
October 11, 2011 6:37pm
I have always been worth waiting for.
I’ve been waiting 8 years, 3 months and 21 days as if old
photos and once pleasant Valentine grams are so inclined to ask.
Those childhood dreams of falling down have come back; hitting
forgiving ground – safety net easy, vacant only to be occupied by
last boyfriend’s love.
The phone number you never dialed is no longer in amenable service
to the moments we spent — they were nothing more than fairytales you
told to keep me captive.
"If you’re going to cheat on your boyfriend make sure you break up with him first, you ugly bitch!"
As I turned to see my friends walk back to class without a care — I came to realize, as I rubbed the streaks of mascara off my face, that my life would never be the same.
I remember lying under the covers when
our premature, first autumn began to fall; an October
night, pale as my lips were cold — abandoned by
blood's refusal to play warmth into November. This
hand evicted out from your glove; my father’s panic
found reprieve. Those childhood dreams of falling
down had come back; hitting the ground - safety
net occupied.
*
November 11, 2000 9:14pm
“I never meant to hurt you. Kissing him meant nothing. You’re the one I want.”
Your flesh at Seventeen— I wanted to relish every inch.
I remember rainy days where we’d seek refuge under your
umbrella, standing on the senior quad in all its emptiness, our
tongues submissive to lunch hour’s destiny. My skin pervasive
in resting eau de cologne, your neck stained in the hue of
habitual love letters — prime accessories in marking
clothed, sexual territory.
*
November 11, 2001 5:13pm
“This isn’t going anywhere. All we do is fight and plus, you’ve yet to let me fuck you.”
I remember your house. Careful in her home, I gained back
your mother’s trust after breaking your virginal heart. I remember
the night I slept over: running away with lies left on my home’s
answering machine, twirling spaghetti, sipping raspberry wine,
listening to wind chimes in blind rapture with the dry Santa Anas.
You undressed my inexperienced teenage frame.
Fearful as your finger let itself slide, I remembered the stained-glass butterfly missing its wing.
*
July 20, 2003 4:37pm
“I’ll call you back.”
“No you won’t.”
“I can’t take your shit anymore. I can’t talk right now with you harping at me. I’ll call you back.”
I was tested on young love. The welcome to cheat—wrapped in those
muscular arms, long through frayed edges of his cotton t-shirt— consented.
I can say I suffered along with you though you’d swiftly overturn my parole,
calling it a bluff, sentencing my capacity to assault fledgling emotions to further
rehabilitation.
*
October 11, 2011 6:37pm
I have always been worth waiting for.
I’ve been waiting 8 years, 3 months and 21 days as if old
photos and once pleasant Valentine grams are so inclined to ask.
Those childhood dreams of falling down have come back; hitting
forgiving ground – safety net easy, vacant only to be occupied by
last boyfriend’s love.
The phone number you never dialed is no longer in amenable service
to the moments we spent — they were nothing more than fairytales you
told to keep me captive.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Trading Secrets
My secrets hang splintered by wooden
clothespins on a line to dry—the cold shade
of nightfall coalesces with the degree of their sorrows.
My secrets scream for a change, each metaphor
exhausted—lying under its own linen waiting for
first light’s epiphany.
My secrets struggle to keep quiet—as the unchanged muse
fills pages in pensive cursive destroyed in a battle against
my hand’s weight—slash marks violate emotional
stains hours after manipulating their own silence.
Pull out these leather-bound sheets; no grief for this spineless
journal is in order.
My secrets wish they were worth keeping—arms down, this pen
resigns; unemployed by vices of real storytelling. Under rug swept,
a poet’s hands washed—the desire to repeat lathered with lye,
celibate in mingling with timid prose.
My secrets want to trade themselves in with yours—
walking out clothed in a free, written exposé, versed
in words past language, intimate in imagery’s arms
never felt before and lying as the dotted “I” in lines of
thought bent on one knee proclaiming this woman’s love
to her art—
Erase my manifesto and donate its nostalgia to the
shelters of prior, plaintive want.
An open Poet can only be read one way—
There’s no use crying over spilled secrets; tie the leather
strings tight, the skeleton within me is all that’s left.
clothespins on a line to dry—the cold shade
of nightfall coalesces with the degree of their sorrows.
My secrets scream for a change, each metaphor
exhausted—lying under its own linen waiting for
first light’s epiphany.
My secrets struggle to keep quiet—as the unchanged muse
fills pages in pensive cursive destroyed in a battle against
my hand’s weight—slash marks violate emotional
stains hours after manipulating their own silence.
Pull out these leather-bound sheets; no grief for this spineless
journal is in order.
My secrets wish they were worth keeping—arms down, this pen
resigns; unemployed by vices of real storytelling. Under rug swept,
a poet’s hands washed—the desire to repeat lathered with lye,
celibate in mingling with timid prose.
My secrets want to trade themselves in with yours—
walking out clothed in a free, written exposé, versed
in words past language, intimate in imagery’s arms
never felt before and lying as the dotted “I” in lines of
thought bent on one knee proclaiming this woman’s love
to her art—
Erase my manifesto and donate its nostalgia to the
shelters of prior, plaintive want.
An open Poet can only be read one way—
There’s no use crying over spilled secrets; tie the leather
strings tight, the skeleton within me is all that’s left.
Monday, September 12, 2011
James Blake - The Wilhelm Scream
When things get a little out of control, I look to the words and rhythm of songs that kept memories of my past afloat. With this, something fresh, all the confusion innundated in the muted tributary of my body releases itself a little more each time I listen.
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