Once More Around the Block

I wasn't ready, let's drive around the block again.

Let me watch the trees blur by–

I need the silent monotony of wheels on pavement

every once in a while–bumps, a rocky road to shake this feeling

because I wasn't ready, wasn't prepared

and now my wound is open and I can't close it up.

I am a waterfall:

gushing, relentless, wild, and dangerous.

I cannot stop the flow of water; from my cheeks the hot streaks pour,

silent rivers cascading down; I cannot utter a sound.

The rushing waves are upon me, the tumultuous storm brewing inside.

It is too much and too fast and I was not ready.

The floodgates have opened and far too soon.

I shouldn't have shared, shouldn't have spoken–

but I did and out poured my sorrow, the whole watery mess,

so please keep driving.

I need this silence against the storm,

I screamed and now I cannot speak.

I shouted when I should have been cautious

and now my sound is gone…

Not gone, but hidden; 

it's been tucked away in the storm. 

In a way, it is the storm, 

and the storm's only outlet is my eyes,

the waterfall falling hot, burning me, leaving ash on my cheeks. 

More like a volcano, but with the current of the sea, 

and that is why I need the road speeding under the tires of the car. 

I cannot face my storm, I cannot banish it,

it is pouring from my face,

I can barely contain it.

But I can't go forward until it subsides,

and that is why I need you to drive.

It brings me back to when I was a kid–

tantrum-throwing, naive, happy, and a few years old, 

when I would cry and my parents didn’t know what to do. 

They would strap me in and take me around–

I needed no destination, 

just an open road and the feel of the world fleeing beneath me. 

The lines paving the streets are hypnotic to my small mind, 

make me small and calm and manageable. 

The world seems manageable from that view because it seems to be managing me–

I am able to relinquish control and let the world pass by. 

The buildings no longer tower over me, the trees aren't close,

and the mountains seem too distant to be threatening.

Controlled, small, methodical, manageable.

When I was young, it contained my storm,

easily settled the waves.

No more violent hysteric cries from an innocent child.

But I have been torn open; my soul cleaved in two

and I am no longer an innocent babe.

But I am in the same position–strapped into my leather throne. 

I am waiting for the road to fill the gaping hole within me, 

to calm my sea and settle my storm. 

But I am scared, almost to death, that driving helps only innocents,

and the stitches on the streets won't be able to stitch me,

and I will be left 

as roadkill.

Validation

I’ve decided that my every breath depends on validation,

I’ve decided that it’s not a craving but a need.

I’ve decided that in asking if my choice is right,

I’m caring for myself and holding fast

to things that keep me on the edge—

rather than plummeting off.

I’ve decided that I need peer reviews for every little action,

I’ve decided that my own free will is not enough.

Like marble copies lean on twisted trunks,

my free will collapses if not well supported.

I’ve decided that I’m in a constant trust fall

but I’m falling forward, forward, asking, asking,

asking if you’re there to catch me.

I’ve decided that to ensure I’m caught again,

to ensure my choice is right,

I need to ask and ask and ask and ask.

I’ve decided all of this and it must be true.

Right?

When I Taste Salt

When I taste salt, I know

I am

alone.

When the waves come over my head to pull me under, 

I can barely stand.

When the sand gives way and I sink to the ocean floor,

 I can’t anymore.

When I try to kick to the surface, 

sand slows my struggling legs.

When I try to scream for help,

water fills my lungs.

and I cannot breathe.

Oh God,

I cannot breathe.

Gulls cry and echo my mind.

Sirens lure me to deeper waters.

Sharks rip my flesh from my bones. 

Silt covers me, until I fossilize.

And I’m no longer there.

Just a skeleton at the bottom of the sea,

wishing she had never tried to swim.

So if you ask me, “Mountains or Beach?”

Mountains.

Plea

Breathe with me,

I beg, I beg,

breathe with me and feel your heart.

It beats like drums, like ocean waves,

like the only thing

keeping you

alive.

like the only thing

keeping me

alive.

How dark may be this life of ours

if still you breathe,

if still your heart

beats like mine?

To give up now is weak and dim,

to give up now is heartbreakingly stupid.

Beach Poem

Every day the world spins round it goes and goes and people talk and work gets added and everywhere are things to do and say and see and if I stop for just a moment I fear the universe will crumble and even here inside the car there’s music to pick, and we should probably stop for gas, and have I gotten everything done I need to? but as we cross the bridge, I smell that salty air, which grows and grows each passing inch. wheels turn round and round, and as a monarch sinks into a golden throne, I sink and seep

into the ocean sounds

and air

and sights.

And into me they seep as well,

passing through my tired muscles,

calming as they do.

Between my toes sweet sand subsides

the torrent of my waking thoughts,

and slowly, slowly, my worries clear.

Out to sea they slowly go;

not like tides which return again

but like the foam

which dissipates

in passing air.

And as the crashing waves delight

my poor and tired ears,

I feel at last as though my home

has finally

been found.

A Mockery of Sorts

Sacred? 

SACRED? 

You call this temple sacred, 

call this house a home? 

Stay awhile, laugh at me, 

worship at a burning altar. 

Don’t mind the smoke and tears and smog, 

we’re going through some renovation. 

If chairs and tables seem to hold 

more weight than seems allowed, 

just look to groaning plates of food

and mirrors of remorse. 

Take off your shoes, 

sit back, relax, 

watch the coming train wreck 

and brace yourself for agony. 

If I say the wrong two words, 

forgive me but don’t fret, 

’cause more and more are coming soon

and somehow they’ll be worse! 

Call it sacred if you dare, 

worship me and kneel in fear.

The world won’t crumble, not for you, 

but when you come again to see 

this sacred temple of despair, 

you’ll find it’s here no more.

Exceptional

They say you are your harshest critic,

they say you’re beautiful, 

tell you to be yourself. 

People say you’re perfect, perfect, 

just the way you are! 

And really, really, I believe it! 

I stare and revel in her beauty,

sigh in blissful admiration.  

Endeared by her mistakes, 

enamored by his clumsiness, 

wish for happiness, happiness, 

all I want is for them to be happy.  

Find the beauty in their faults,

marvel at the flawed perfection of humanity. 

Crazy how somehow suddenly I’m not human.

Crazy how somehow her imperfections are imagined, 

how somehow those imperfections form a perfect whole, 

how my perfect whole suddenly isn’t so whole. 

Crazy how her insecurities are silly in their fallacy,   

and mine are rational, 

reasonable, 

justified. 

Crazy how everything I think makes perfect sense 

and must be true. 

Crazy how I’m the exception! 

Revel in my stupidity, seethe at my idiocy, 

cower from my flaws. 

Crazy how the only compliment I believe is the one telling me I’m exceptional.

Not-So-Lucky Penny

Found myself again!

thought I’d lost her there, for a second, 

buried under smiles and lies. 

Found her, though, 

in tears, 

in scraping breaths and painful laughter.

Think I’ll lose her again tomorrow, 

just for a second, 

and wait a while

before starting the search again. 

She’s a slippery one, 

a bit elusive, 

sometimes intentionally, 

a bit deceitful, 

sometimes inadvertently. 

Sometimes hate to find her, honestly, 

hate to feel her heart again, 

hate to feel her sentiment and love,

’cause smiles and lies are so much more easy, 

honestly. 

If she slips from my fingers again, 

I can’t say I’ll be too upset.

Inconvenient Honesty

My cup is not half empty, 

my cup is not even half full. 

My cup is empty in the fullest way possible, 

overflowing in its lack. 

Fill it again, again, again,

choke on tears and gulp it down. 

In sleep it streams from tired eyes 

and in the morning my cup is empty, 

empty, 

dripping onto the floor 

in its emptiness. 

Pour for me your lies and wiles,
trick me to despair. 

If you should tell me one more thing

about my faults and flaws, 

my cup won’t be so kind 

to keep my head 

above its airy surface. 

Good intention hardly cures

additions to my cup. 

Can’t process any words of love or hope,

only focused on the silver of your shining bucket 

and the echoing of your drooling words in my flooded well. 

It’ll be empty one day, 

one day, 

and it’ll crumple 

to ash

and then I’ll sleep 

without a tear.

Masters of Small Talk

How am I doing today?

Fine. Good. Okay.

Us masters of small talk know the standard response;

consistently we start with lies,

reflecting our humanity.

Hypocrisy is our birthright,

inaccuracy starts our misunderstanding.

We cannot understand, because we choose not to try.

How am I doing today?

What if we answered this question freely?

What if we tried to talk?

What if we tried to listen?

What if we tried to understand?

What if we understood?

How am I doing today?

Not fine. Not good. Not okay.

And this is terrifying.

Even more so, the thought of sharing terror, 

even if others share terror,

even if another lifts my terror.

Ease my burden,

lighten my load,

help my soul to heal.

Understand me as I try to understand you.

Apiary

There are bees! in my head!

There’s a scream! in my chest!

A cage around my heart and a box around my body

(learned about foreshadowing in English today), 

a chain around my beating heart. 

Make some honey, be productive, 

give me something sweet to burn; 

all these bees can do is buzz.

The bees only get louder, 

the scream only pushes harder, 

the box closes tighter

and tighter

and tighter

and 

At times I’m scared to talk, 

scared to laugh or scream or cry or breathe, 

scared to open my mouth

in fear that the scream

pushing against my ribcage

will burst through

and tear apart my throat

and scare away

everyone in the whole wide world… 

And besides, some people are allergic to bees.

Killing My Buzz

It should not be this hard

to be a bumbling bee,

buzzing, flitting, working, 

making sweet honey.

No time to rest,

I build my nest

of all the things I keep.

And all the while, I am guarding

secrets in my deep,

the woe residing in the black

stripe of blood and heart. 

The yellow stripe I show to all,

its golden hue is art.

But the sunshine feeling I wear as greeting

is unwholly and ever fleeting.

Creeping Cold

Last night was the worst

There was no sanctuary 

There was no hiding

My blanket fortress

Was deemed insignificant 

It came anyway

It soaked into me

It snuck in and froze my heart

I was paralyzed 

Icy fingers scrape

Dead and silent, cold as death

It urged me to end

I struggled for heat

The warmth that gave me my life

It eluded me

The villain stepped in

Made me yearn for my demise

Changed my mind again

I was no longer

Cold.

Passing Beauty

The car moves too fast

I’m trying to soak in the splendor 

Absorb the beauty before it passes

The colors, the mountains, the creeks

Ombré on the leaves

Massive rocks tearing holes in the sky

Water glistening and flowing in endless cycles

I need to remember this

Photos never capture the magnitude 

Memory fails and forgets

So I must sit and enjoy it while I can

Bask in the beauty, imprint in on my mind

In a few weeks the colors will fade and fall, the water will freeze, the rocks will be coated in a powdered white

Foliage falling, fleeting fairness, forgotten for forever

Zombie Me

When they pronounce me brain-dead, I will have been dead for a while.

My brain will have heated to a remarkable degree,

then oozed out of my ears and slithered down my knee.

As it slips to the floor, I will have watched it be trampled, 

a mishmashed, pink, peculiar sample.

And with nothing left for me, I will paint my smile vacantly.

Step by Step

Life is made of patterns

Patterns of love and hate

Eating, showering, sleeping

Laughing, sobbing, emotionless

They start and stop.

Then start again,

Over and over again,

The cycle is neverending…

Although we can never stop,

We can change

Let me break this monotony.

I come home to no one awake,

Spaghetti on the stove.

I leave in the morning without a wave,

Goodbye.

Let me make spaghetti

I'll wake you up to say farewell

Change the operation

I will try

But will you follow the manual?

Wave goodbye.

Paradise Bus

My bus is going to paradise,

I’m getting off at the very last stop.

Golden light floats from the celestial clouds,

a marvelous scene that stretches around the world.

It seeps into the faces of the people,

warming their expression, warmth in their eyes,

a fiery god reaching out to caress our cheeks.

They are hoping to make it on time as well.

Some missed the bus, some will have to get off,

but not me–I’m staying till the end.

I stay and bask in the golden sun on my blue plastic chair 

as one by one, they get off.

Plastic chairs empty, light on the floor,

until there’s no one there but me and the soul driving the bus.

The bus driver says, Take the wheel, I’ll miss my stop,

and then I’m truly alone,

except for the fiery being.

It pulls me close and hugs me tight, filling me up with its all consuming whole, filling my hole where the people had been.

It dances across my skin and whispers in my ear, You can do this.

So I grasp the wheel and steer towards the heart of the sun–

up up up into the sky, 

into the beautiful abyss where I will remain for the rest of my days.