Tears swell up.
Bile churns.
Head aches.
Heart burns.
*
Muscles tense.
Thoughts amass.
Hands shake.
Words turn crass.
*
Flying away.
Later today.
Not to stay.
But that’s okay.
*
Freakout.
Walkabout.
Lipsapout.
I’llsortitout.
poetry
Blasts From the Past
Isn’t it strange how things seem to synchronize in life? Sometimes it’s craving something sweet and suddenly discovering a cake mix you’ve had for months and forgotten about. Sometimes it’s driving along, thinking about how you really need to replace your toaster, and then seeing an appliance store the next time you stop at a red light. Sometimes it’s reaching your hand out to call a friend you haven’t spoken to for ages, and having the phone ring just at that moment with that person on the line calling you. Life is sometimes funny that way. Coincidences probably, or so my rational mind deduces, but it doesn’t take away the sweet taste of mystery that comes with it.
This week, I’ve made some remarkable findings. First, I found my old poetry notebook in which I’d copied, by hand, all the poems I’d written on the computer. Reading through the poems, I was surprised at how much of what I’d written then still applies to me, but in a different way.
Second, I most likely found the reason I don’t sleep well is because of something in my past – I never put two and two together until getting the input from someone else, but once I did, it clicked. Not that it’s helped me sleep better, but at least I know a likely reason for it.
Third, I got an email from OpenDiary, a website I used to write in during high-school. I had two diaries there; one written when I was sixteen, the other when I was seventeen. I accessed both diaries and downloaded them to my computer and read through some entries. As with the poetry notebook, it was a surprise to read my words back then and think how they mean something different, but still relevant, to me now. The best part, though, is that there are a few entries about the beginning of my relationship with Sir B. F. and those made me smile a great deal.
Last, I found my daily-calendar from senior year in high school. It’s full of lyrics, big decelerations of boredom, private jokes my friends and I had then and lots of hearts dedicated to Sir. B. F. as well as the various bands I was seriously into at the time. I loved finding the doodles I had done while bored out of my mind during class – a big Christmas tree with presents beneath it drawn on December 24, random cat and bunny drawings, some manga attempts.
It was strange, finding all these things day after day, but I enjoyed it. I love those weird synchronizations in life. How about you?
Fun House Mirror
It grows, grows, grows,
The time stops, then flows,
The truth that nobody knows,
Is how it grows, grows, grows.
**
It hurts, hurts, hurts,
Danger no longer flirts,
They’re filled out now – her shirts,
And that hurts, hurts, hurts.
**
It numbs, numbs, numbs,
Endless pages she thumbs,
Only they make the heart drum,
‘Cause it’s numb, numb, numb.
**
It gets better, worse, the same,
While the wild impulses are tamed,
Moods shift as if in a game,
So it gets better, worse, the same.
Time
The keyboard clacks and clicks,
The clock now tocks and ticks,
As time goes by,
The words do fly,
Little shapes like sticks.
**
The music beats and swells,
Containing sounds of bells,
The speakers thrum,
The voice does hum,
Like echos in a well.
**
The night is damp and dark,
Loud voices in the park,
Dreams are rare,
When sleep is spare,
But wish they could embark.
**
The days are long and slow,
But weeks, they seem to flow,
Confusion reigns,
The body strains,
And missing is the glow.
Mirror
Look in the mirror.
Who do you see?
Do you see yourself?
Do you see your parents?
Your brother or sister?
Do you see your friends, standing around you?
Or do you just see yourself?
I used to see myself.
I used to look in the mirror,
and see the truth.
Not good or bad,
just true.
I saw, plain as day,
the length of my hair falling over my shoulders
and the green of my eyes, lost sometimes in the gray.
I saw my mouth and my nose and my chin,
and my face as a whole.
Not good or bad,
just true.
I saw the length of my neck
and the breadth of my shoulders,
the collarbone always pronounced.
I saw the swell of my breasts
and my wide ribs that moved when I breathed
and my stomach rounding down
with the bellybutton right in the middle.
I saw the curve of hips and my thighs,
the length of my legs
with the knees looking funny
as they always do,
and feet with nice toes that weren’t too big.
Not good or bad,
just true.
Today,
I don’t see myself in the mirror anymore.
I see everything that isn’t there,
or the things that are there but too much.
I don’t notice my hair or my eyes,
except when I’m in a really good mood.
I don’t remember the good things behind the facade,
I obsess over details.
Not good,
Bad,
and true.
Only not really true.
But it’s hard to disbelieve an irrational truth.
I try not to look at mirrors much, anymore.
Beast
Surrounded by mirrors
You cannot escape.
You surround yourself.
Stare and gape
Wide eyed
At the truths you uncover.
Screaming at yourself,
Hitting,
Scratching,
Biting,
Self-loathing,
Covered in blood.
You pause and see yourself-
An animal.
A primitive being
Unable to control itself.
Rage, anger, hurt,
All forgotten
In the shock of discovery.
Through it all,
A small light in the corner of your mind.
It leads you back into yourself.
It makes you believe that perhaps,
Just perhaps,
The mirrors deceive you.
Someone loves you.
Stone
Grey stone worn thin
By the thousands who’ve
Walked upon it.
Innocent children,
Unaware of the hurt they inflict.
Adolescents,
In all their subconscious sadism,
Damaging a-purpose.
Apologetic adults,
Guilt nibbling at the edges of their beings,
Though always pushed away
By the knowledge of necessity.
Grey stone worn thin-
Wordless shout emitting from every crack,
Soundless scream of pain at each step,
Enduring,
Forever enduring,
With no will or way to end the suffering.
Comfort comes from one source only-
The familiarity of the pain.
For Aba
I want to believe in heaven.
I want to believe that you’re there.
I want to believe you’re comfortable.
I want to believe you’re still watching.
I want to believe you can hear me say “I love you”.
I want to know that you’re ok.
I want to know that you’re not just…
Gone.
I want to believe that I’ll join one day.
I want to hope that I’ll see you again.
I want to hope that death doesn’t truly part us.
I want to believe in heaven.
But then again,
You didn’t believe.
So how would you even be there?
Emily Dickinson
Ever since I read a silly little-girl book that had an explanation about who Emily Dickinson was, I’ve liked her. I only read a few of her poems back then, but I loved the idea of her. Not only was her name beautiful, but she had a certain strange charm about her – a recluse, misunderstood, hated having people look at her, wrote all the time… She was an appealing mystery.
When I went on my college-trip, I had the great pleasure of taking a class at Occidental College in Los Angeles. The class I chose was a class about Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The poem we studied was this, number 202:
“Faith” is a fine invention
For Gentlemen who see!
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency!
The amount of discussion and conversation that went into the quotation marks around the first word, faith, was astounding. We spent an hour, a whole hour, on the meanings that can be derived from that. Perhaps she meant faith as a concept, perhaps she meant to be ironic or sarcastic about the meaning of faith, perhaps she simply wanted to make sure it was clear she meant the word faith as its own thing. Emily Dickinson usually has underlined words in her poems, odd capitalisation in the middle of sentences, strange and mysterious punctuation – all these things are great for beginning discussions in class.
Ms. M gave me a complete set of Emily Dickinson’s poems as a gift after I raved about that class. Her poems are beautiful. I consider myself now a fan.
What Happiness Is
Happiness is a feeling of contentment.
Happiness is the smell of a book.
Happiness is a fresh breeze on your face.
Happiness is the first time you see snow.
Happiness is the sound of your favorite band.
Happiness is the taste of that food you loved when you were a kid.
Happiness is interesting conversation with a friend.
Happiness can be faked.
Happiness can be denied.
Happiness can be pushed away.
Happiness can be welcomed.
Happiness can be nurtured.
Happiness can be caressed.
Happiness is the sparkle in the eye of someone who loves you.
Happiness is cuddling all through a cold night with someone who loves.
Happiness is a weekend of pure fun with someone who loves you.
Happiness is knowing you have someone who loves you.
Happiness is unique.
Happiness is individual.
Happiness is knowing all is well right now.
It occurs to me that I have written what might just constitute as cheesy Hallmark-card material. Still, to my mind it’s all true, and I had a good day yesterday and wanted to express it somehow. Even in a Hallmark way.
Slightly Ignorant 