Not All Dreams Come True

When I rise,

I fall.

 

My feet twist underneath me,

arms flailing-

as I stutter to an awkward stop.

 

But there’s such a beauty in the motion,

losing myself in the rhythm

of music

and my pulse

roaring in my ears.

 

It’s such a marvel-

the way dancers show

emotion

through their body

and I want to speak their language.

 

I want to dance so badly

it hurts.

 

But my body

feels foreign

and stiff

and unyielding.

 

When I rise

I fall-

amid the sounds of laughter

and joking nudges,

murmurs of

poor girl –

she’s so clumsy.

 

So I’m left

with nothing

but a burning jealousy

for those who can dance-

and a passion

that I can’t

extinguish.

 

 

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I Heard He Said She Said I Was a Slut

Excusez-moi,

Mademoiselle.

Could you perhaps explain to me

the exact way to show off that sliver of skin

between the cuff of my shirt and the edge of my

mother-of-pearl glove buttoned tight against my skin.

Or perhaps

you could teach me the art of just barely-

brushing fingertips-

just enough so you can feel it,

but not any more.

 

Because I am apparently

a thing controlled only by hormone

with no sway in my own actions-

(because one thing only leads to another,

young lady,

and if you can be near a boy-

a young man-

so comfortably,

who knows where you’ll stop?)

I’m just a teenage-hormone machine,

and my only drive

is for sex,

obviously. 

 

I know that you’re just

“looking out for me”

because you don’t want me to be

another statistic,

another teenage pregnancy

with another silent tear-stained abortion.

 

But all I hear is static

and that all of a sudden I’m not a

“mature young lady” who

“has her head screwed on right”.

I’m not “oh, she has such good grades”

or “she’s going places” anymore.

 

I’m just some wanton slut

to you

and maybe that’s not how you see it

but that’s how I hear it

and all of a sudden

that changes

everything. 

 

So I’ll compress my hurt

into a lead ball to sit comfortably

between my ribs

and remind me to not be so

optimistic.

 

Because perhaps you waited

months and months

to hold your boyfriend’s hand-

but I don’t love

like I have time

(like you tell me to-

because maybe he’ll be “the one”

and then I’ll have the rest of my life).

 

I love like I will loose him tomorrow

because odds are,

I will.

 

All things end.

All friendships, all connections-

and most frequently,

love.

 

But just because I see

what I have as finite-

does not mean that I’m going to

make the same mistake as my so called friends,

in dark rooms of seedy motels.

 

Because I do 

have my head screwed on straight

and my priorities intact-

and while I may derive some pleasure

in the mutual warmth of a hug

and his familiar scent

I do indeed control my body

and my “teenage hormones”

do not define me.

 

Alors,

excusez-moi,

Madame.

I have come for my glove fitting-

and a corset drawn too tight.

I will be a perfect little lady, you see.

Shy and demure-

if only you’ll explain it to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Did We Start Wasting Wishes?

When did we decide

that the stars were somehow

magical

those cold

burning

chemicals

that are incapable of caring

whether we

live

or

die.

 

When did fire

become more magical

when we snuff it out,

a gray wisp in the air

the dying

remains

of a silent

wish.

 

You will never understand

the value of a wish

until you discover one wish

that no matter how much you believe

in the magic of stars

and birthday candles-

it will never

come true.

It’s Not Complicated

Hello, long time no see! I’ve been doing my fair share of writing, but nothing that would make any sense if I put them up here. So here is a piece that I wrote with the intention of getting it into a couple newspapers. It was rejected for being three times as long as was preferred and for calling the media out on some things, so I shall put it here! As always, criticism and thoughts are encouraged and appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts about the subject matter. 

I will be the first to tell you that I’m not very political. I’m not very proactive, not very outspoken about my opinions. I don’t understand much of anything about politics, and with all the mud-slinging involved, I’m not so sure I want to. But there comes a point in time, when a nation begins to tear itself apart, when I can no longer remain silent. There comes a time when I cannot bare the hatred portrayed in our media, in our country, and even in our schools. There comes a point where it’s all so overwhelming that I am overcome, not with the urge scream, not to kick or shout and point fingers, but to write. I write because I am afraid. I am afraid of what this country has become, and where it is headed. I am afraid of what I will have to face heading into adulthood, and I know that I’m not the only one my age who feels this way.

While the looming responsibilities of college and adulthood cast a daunting shadow, they seem so small when compared to the plague that is destroying our country. This overflowing anger and hatred seeping into everyday life, where people, living people all with complex stories and emotions, turn against each other because they are not identical. Because they have different morals, religions, social standings, cultures, skin colors, sexuality, genders, ideas, personalities, or some mixture of them all. Because they are unique. Because they are their own person. Our country is bursting at the seams with hatred because we are diverse, and I can’t help but wonder why, in a country built upon the idea that all people where created equal, are we set on the idea that one way, one type of person, is better than another?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told how boring life would be if we were all the same. Some of my favorite after-school and sleepover discussions were ones where my friends and I would talk about what we thought. About anything. Whether it was raving about our favorite ice cream, or discussing our opinions about the election, we talked. Valid points were exchanged, opinions were listened to and considered, good-natured jokes were tossed about, and all parties had a laugh. But most importantly, opinions were respected. We all walked away without becoming mortal enemies because we could agree to disagree. And sometimes, it all seems so hopeless when the adults on television, the people I’m supposed to be looking to for guidance, can’t do what teenage girls are doing at slumber parties.

Today, where media is dominated by the evils of the world and the horrible capabilities of man, it’s hard to remember that there are good people out there. People who don’t lash out in anger and fear, or lie to work their way to the top seem so few and far between. Worse still, when the news stations play a garbled game of telephone where the original message of the original source is lost between the interview and the morning news, information is twisted, trust is broken, and misconceptions are planted, only succeeding to breed more and more conflict.

But even with this world of negativity, I can hold onto hope. Looking around at the people I’ve met, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Despite their differences, they cherish their relationships, and respect each other, because people are more than their religion, sexuality, political party, gender or race, and they know that.  Our country is in a dark place, but we must remember that people are good. As a people, we can overcome this hatred. I am talking to you. I refuse to remain silent. I refuse to let what I have to offer waste away under the pressure of hatred. I refuse to let my light, my love for this country and its people, all its people, to be smothered. Will you side with me? I dare you.

Colds Are the Most Miserable Thing in Existence

What a lovely morning-

waking up unable to breathe

accompanied by the pounding headache

and stiff muscles.

What a lovely morning

when the nausea makes the room spin

and vertigo moves the floor

under stationary feet.

Static movement becomes dynamic.

What a lovely morning-

I wish this cold

would leave me alone.

 

Have a good day, lovelies. 

We Do We Do This To Ourselves

I have to try

harder 

and push more

overtime

and late hour nights

until morning brings

incoherence

and blind panic

because the words are swimming

and changing places-

the book makes no sense

any longer

but I have to work

harder 

I have to get ahead

stay ahead

be ahead

be better

and stronger

and smarter

so the late hour nights

stop bothering me

and I’m used to sorting through

the fog that hovers in  my mind

and trawling through 3 o’clock

scribbles

and incoherent books

I’m used to feeling

stupid

and slow

because I’m so tired

and my mind can only comprehend

a few things at once

all for the sake of being

better

and working

harder 

because as long as I work hard enough

my dreams will come true

if I don’t

die

first.

Dear-Me, Why Did You Stop Believing?

I miss composing.

I miss the dance of words

tripping over words

and rhythm-

jarring and discordant

or sweet

and slow,

like blood or sap

(ironic they both are life-liquid, is it not?)

 

Like blood or sap,

it runs in me, this

music

but I have no melody

and no words

so it aches and burns

and I can’t stop it …

 

I fear

I have lost the talent-

these words no longer sparkle

or flutter with life.

 

They’re just

motionless,

like still-smoking ashes

(perhaps they once were beautiful

but they are not

anymore)

A Poem A Day (Day #30)

Good morning readers. This is the last day of the “Write  a poem every day for thirty days” challenge that I set myself to. Granted, I missed two days and published those poems a day late, but otherwise, I do believe that this was a smashing success in regards to refueling my creativity. I hope that you guys found a few that you liked. I’d like to thank all the people who gave me likes and follows; it was really encouraging and gave me a lot of motivation to write. 

Is it possible

to be a ghost

of yourself?

 

Somehow less than a shell

and more like a spirit

draped in a melancholy fashion

over the shoulders of a living person.

 

It seems

as though I have lost my colors,

the vibrancy sucked from my veins

until I am pale and paper thin.

 

I fear

I may never

find them

again.

A Poem A Day (Day #29)

Everyone promises that

“Things will get better.”

 

How cliche-

the same words in their

monotonous pattern

falling from well-wishes

and hallmark cards,

loudly proclaiming,

“Get well soon.”

 

The phrase falls unbidden

from lips that have yet to taste the

sweet, bitter poison

from the golden chalice from which we

are forced to drink

until our veins burn with poison

and our minds are cloudy

with the hazy visions

of an oracle.

 

But things

will get better.

 

I say,

let it hurt.

Let it burn.

Cry and don’t be ashamed.

Feel the poison in your veins

and know that it is killing you

and laugh all the while.

 

Because sometimes,

things don’t get better.

 

A Poem A Day (Day #28)

The loneliness is a-

tangible weight

that falls from the ceiling as I mumble

broken bits of poetry

to try to fill the

horrible

silence.

 

It presses on my heart,

installing some vague panic there-

as if I should run,

but I don’t know what from.

 

It keeps me from sleeping,

from dreaming

(what’s the point of living-

without the beauty of dreams?)

 

But, when I do sleep

and dream

it’s a torrent of nightmares

and broken glass.

 

I wear my loneliness like a cloak,

the mantle of a king

overseeing the midnight silence-

a kingdom composed

of blankets heaped high and

pillows flung across the room-

lasting only until  

daybreak

heralds the coming

of a new morn.