For You and Your Hatred (A Song of Forgiveness)

Shatter; slivers of broken glass

the desperate sip from the ice cold flask

and we both knew this feeling- it just couldn’t last

because of the shattered mask of your past

and though of my story you never did ask

I came from the stars and the moon and the sky

and I find when I’m dying I finally fly.

 

We played with the shards and our fingers, they bled-

Onto the cards where our fates, they were read

and you were your own and unto yourself –

so my feelings were locked away on a shelf

that was dusty and worn from years of disuse

and my heart dangled from its thrice folded noose

between the cage of my ribs and the pulse of my blood

and the dry of the tide and the song of the flood

and the beauty in chaos and the stars in the sky

and only when I’m dying do I finally fly.

 

We shout in vain at the man on the moon

our hysteria harmony to a sweet little tune

of death and despair and the pain here on earth

while we wait and we wish for our first second birth

but there’s no solace to be found in a man in the sky

yet still when I’m dying, I finally fly.

 

I fly, I fly- I swear that I do

I closed my eyes and thought happy thoughts

and then suddenly, I flew.

 

But if flying is like dying and the waning moon draws thin

and this flying is not flying, but instead drowning in my sin

then what am I to do with my filth coated wings

when I was only searching for that little bird that sings

because I wanted to ask its secret- the message in the song

that is sings without ceasing, in the darkness, all night long-

for I had found comfort in that sweet little sound

and I wanted to be grounded in the steadiness of the ground

but a different song still called to me, the lilting of the sky

and I found that though I fought it, when I was dying

I could fly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Those Who Walk Among Us

It was a dream-

or the fragment of a dream

(an echo of a scream)

where the white bear of the north

whose frost he issued forth

limped past a snow glazed window

‘neath a starry sky.

 

And the white bear of the north-

with the comets he would fly,

his fur starbrushed and stardust gleaming

As I dreamed this dream I thought I was dreaming,

but dizzy and unseeing

for a moment, I could fly.

 

The sickness spread from blood to bone,

the liar’s lips with string were sewn

and I lost the soul I called my own

to the white bear of the North.

 

Longing and leaning, from dust to ash

searching for his clandestine stash

of souls he took that were his to him

and the hope he tore from limb to limb

and a soul can’t be saved with a holy hymn

beneath this starry sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Impossible

I’m hungry-

but not enough.

No matter how hard I

push

there’s always someone

pushing

harder. 

I want to succeed

but I find myself

too tired

to study anymore.

 

We learned about the Romantic’s

today-

They think that

everyone

can be an

artist.

 

I wish the world

thought

the

same.

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.

 

 

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.

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.